Book 5: A Heart for Falsehood Framed
by Soledad
Summary: 5th Boromir story. Elrond's Council. Hopefully the final version. Implied mm. Sorry, I can't do anything against the weird formatting. The only thing in this tale that isn't my fault.
1. Chapter 1: Summoning to Council

**A Heart for Falsehood Framed**

**by Soledad**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Warning: this story contains implied m/m interaction – don't read it if it's not your thing.

Rating: PG – 13, just to be on the safe side.

**Author's notes:**

This is Part 5 of my Boromir-storyline ''Fall Before Temptation''. There will probably be three more parts until it is completed.

Though I generally follow the books, this time I adapted a few lines of dialogue from the movie: the whole scene where Boromir sees the shards of Elendil's Sword for the first time; some in Elrond's Council. The only reason for this being that said scene helped me explore Boromir's character more deeply.

Other scenes from the Council, including Bilbo's verse, are taken from ''The Fellowship of the Ring'', re-written the whole scene from Boromir's point of view. I also messed up a bit with the timeline, both the movie and the books, otherwise I wouldn't be able to reach the emotional climax I had been working towards.

To the relationship of Boromir and Elladan and to the Lady Aquiel see my 4th  Boromir story, ''The Bitter Gift of Compassion''.

The title of this story has been borrowed from a season 2 episode of the science fiction-series Andromeda.

**Chapter One: Summoning to Council**

The end of October passed and November came with cold winds and needle-sharp rains, turning the golden glow of Imladris to twilit grey, and even most Elves retreated into the confining safety of their houses, watching the changing of the season deep inside their airy rooms where the moody attacks of late autumn weather could not reach them, not even through the open archways that let one side of each room without protection.

Still, these days were probably the best ones for Boromir since his early childhood. When not truly happy – for _that_ he would have needed the love of another one who simply _could_ not love him that way –, he at least found some sort of peaceful contentment in Elladan's love. Even if it only was the comfort of flesh, for both of them.

Or, at least, so he believed.

For they were, in many ways, truly alike, in spite of the countless centuries Elladan had already known, compared to Boromir's short-lived mortality. Of high birth they both were, growing up in the shadow of intimidatingly powerful fathers, struggling to find their own path, constantly compared to younger brothers who were considered finer, more easy-going than themselves, finding comfort only in the harsh, fleeting love of another men – indeed, they were alike a lot.

After their first, somewhat frenzied encounter, Elladan went on with that customary (and, truth to be told, unnerving) Elvish eagerness to show him the wonders of Imladris – and wonders there were to be shown, no doubt about it! Boromir was a lot less artistic than his brother, yet not blind for beauty, and Elladan took him to all the hiding places of his long-gone childhood: to ancient trees and crystal waterfalls, through twilit alleys and huge, shadowy halls full of old treasures where no-one had dwelt for hundreds of years.

To his mild dismay, Elladan even insisted to introduce him to his friends who still dwellt in the valley (there were not many of those, though), but first and foremost to  Elrohir and his betrothed, the Lady Aquiel.

Boromir found Elrohir easy enough to get along with, and they told each other tall tales of battles and orc-hunting, Elrohir being better with words than his twin, just as Faramir was better than Boromir; and he had the heart of a minstrel and his hands were as skilled with the strings of the harp as they were with the strings of the bow – which painfully remainded Boromir how his brother had to give up his harp lessons to touch nothing else but weapons of war for the rest of his life.

But the Lady Aquiel was tall and slender and as quick as a deer, and her long hair like molten gold and her sweet voice like the tune of a silver flute – and she was called Lalaith, too, which means laughter, for when she laughed, it sounded like the music of silver church bells, and even the rain and the wind stopped to listen to it. And though she seemed to be a friend of the Lady Arwen – and, as Elladan revealed, was even older than her –, Lalaith truly seemed as merry and unconcerned as old tales spoke about Elves. Elrohir surely seemed to lit up with relief in her company, having had to endure his father's brooding mood all day.

Sometimes Legolas, too, would join them on their rides outside the valley, admiring the wonderful, light-footed Elven horses that were kept in airy, open stables at the north end of the valley, or challenging the archers of the dale to firendly competitions which he won every time with practiced ease. For in spite of his love for the ancient trees and old lays, in the heart of his undying hearts the Prince of Mirkwood was a warrior, too, just as the two of them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

''My mind is still troubled over the Heir of Gondor'', Legolas said on one greyish morrow, half-sitting and half-lying upon Elrond's huge, beautifully carved bed, trailing long fingers through the raven hair of his lover of old.

He had just returned from the dawn-greeting ceremony that he and his people traditionally celebrated every morrow under the oldest trees of the valley, adamantly stating that they would hear the song of trees at sunrise – something no other Elf was able to achieve and most of them considered a myth.

''And my heart is troubled over Elladan as well'', he added. ''We might have made a grave error to conceal Estel's true heritage from Boromir. Men are strange creatures. He might believe that we betrayed him… and lied to him.''

''That I, too, fear greatly'', Elrond admitted, resting his forehead on Legolas' shoulder.

There were days he wondered how he would be able to go on, carrying the responsibility for the fate of Middle-earth on his shoulders, if not for the soothing presence of Thranduil's son. However rare Legolas' visits might have been, he still anchored Elrond's soul and saved him from falling into darkness from all that evil and pain he had seen in his long, long life.

''Yet it would be perilous to talk about Estel's birthright ere the time comes'', the Lord of Imladris continued. ''Not even your own escort knows who he truly is – and they had hunted Orcs with him in Mirkwood for years.''

''True'', Legolas nodded, ''but my people are Elves. They have the time to wait till they are told what they need to know. Boromir is granted only a short span of years, as we see it. No wonder he is less patient in times of doubt.''

''Or in any other time, I fear'', Elrond sighed. ''And I do share your worries about Elladan, too. So strong the blood of mortal Men sings in his veins… so much more alike them he grows with every passing century. I always let him choose his own paths, in choosing his battles as well as in choosing his lovers, yet he still is restless, and I doubt not that could he not ride out to hunt Orcs, this very valley would break his spirits and kill him. With this one, however… I fear he shall get hurt, badly.''

''The son of Denethor is more than a match for him, in many ways'', Legolas agreed thoughtfully, ''for he cannot be controlled and restrained, nor would he respect Elladan the same way the Dúnedain of the North do: for his birth alone. This one is proud and stubborn and strong – Estel shall be hard-pressed to win him over… or put him on his place.''

''Yet what causes me even more anguish, is, that Elladan is slowly falling in love with him'', Elrond said. ''I very much doubt that he wants to or that he would even be aware of it. I would not mind him seeking distraction or rebonding with his mortal self – we both know he needs it or else he would be driven mad. But this Man has a deeply wounded heart – and should he lash out in his pain, it would hit Elladan hard. For he cares for him too much already.''

''You cannot be certain of that'', Legolas offered mildly.

''Oh but I can'', Elrond sighed. ''I can see it shining in his eyes. Never in nearly three thousand years have his eyes shone this bright for any one. 'Tis the same light that shines in _my_ eyes every time I look at _you_.''

''Which used to make _my_ father worry and scowl and grumble for at least a century'', Legolas laughed lightly, and Elrond felt how his mood, too, lightened a little.

It was very hard, indeed, to brood with Legolas around.

''I fear that King Thranduil shall never really trust me again'', he said. ''We might have put an end to the old grudge between our two realms on the White Council – only to create a new one when you came to me after Celebrían's departure.''

Legolas nodded, turning serious again, for Thranduil's disapproval truly clouded the joy they found in each other.

''You have to let Elladan follow his chosen path, just as you ever had'', he then said. ''He might get hurt, 'tis true. But we all get hurt sometimes. And your son is no tender elfling any more. He is almost as old as I am. Old enough to face the risks of love.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

So the days of early November passed by in some unexpected peace and the day of Elrond's Council arrived. Boromir woke early on that day, feeling somewhat anxious again, torn between excitement and foreboding at the thought that he would finally find out the meaning of what he came to think of as the Riddle of Doom – and found, to his dismay, that Elladan was already gone. Then he remembered that the sons of Elrond were, ideed, meant to leave shortly after the Council and certainly had preparations to make.

He got up and ready in mere moments, and after a short breakfast he left the guest house to walk along the terraces above the loud-flowing Bruinen and watched the pale, cool sun rise above the far mountains, and shine down, slanting through the silver mist: the dew upon the yellow leaves was glimmering and the woven nets of gossamer twinkled on every bark. He stopped again and again, glaring with wonder in his eyes at the great heights in the East. The snow was white upon their peaks and remainded him of the white locks of old Mindolluin, the great mountain of his homeland.

On a set cut in the stone beside a turn in the path he came upon the Lady Aquiel, who, too, seemed to be looking toward the East; and her eyes were worried, for the first time since he had met her.

''Good morrow'', she greated him friendly, but absently. ''Feel ready for the great council?''

''I have been ready for at least a month'', Boromir replied, somewhat gruffily.

The Elf-Lady nodded in understanding. ''We have tempted your patience long enough, I believe. Now, hopefully, you shall find the answers you were so desperately seeking for.

''What about you, lady?'' Boromir asked. ''Do you not want to hear the tiding and decisions this council might offer?''

But the Lady Aquiel only shook her head, smiling. ''Nay, I do not want to sit through long and boring discussions. I shall learn everything of importance soon enough.''

This surprised Boromir, for he always thought – and his unexpectedly long stay in Imladris only strengthened him in this belief – that Elves as a rule were utterly curious people.

But ere he could voice  his amazement, a single bell rang out.

''That is the warning bell for the Council of Elrond'', Aquiel said. ''You should go now, for you are wanted. Do you need me to escort you?''

Boromir shook his head in polite refusal and hurried along the winding paths back to the house – directly to the porch that Elladan had shown him the day before, in order to make him able to find his way alone.

The light of the clear autumn morning was now glowing in the valley. The noise of bubbling water came up from the foaming river-bed. Birds were singing, and a wholesome peace lay on the land. And yet, a feeling of impending doom overcame Boromir's heart again, and the shadow that had cleared up a little during those cheerful days he had spent in Elladan's company, settled down heavily upon him again.

Elrond was already there, of course, and several others were seated in silence about him. Boromir saw Glorfindel with several other counsellors of Elrond's household, of whom he only knew Erestor, their chief; and with him was Galdor, an Elf from the Grey Havens who had come on an errand from Círdan the Shipwright only two days ago. And there was also Legolas, clad in green and brown again, as a messenger from his father, the Elven-King of Northern Mirkwood.

But not all of the Council were Elves. In a corner alone Strider was sitting, clad in his old, travel-worn clothes again; and Boromir saw the two Dwarves he had gotten a glimpse on that feast several weeks ago, so alike in their looks that they could only have been father and son… and hardly had Boromir found a seat for himself, a little apart from the others, as an all-too-familiar figure of an old man appeared in one of the arched doorways, wearing a long, grey coat and a big, grey hat; and leading, seemingly, a young, Elvish-looking boy by the hand. Yet the boy's clothes were anything but Elvish, and his feet were large and bare, covered with thick, soft brown curls, not unlike those upon his head.

Boromir was so amazed over this never-heard-of little creature that it took him a moment to recognize the grey-clad old man with that long, white beard and those deep, piercing eyes of his.

_Mithrandir_!, he thought, full of awe, _now I am certain that I tumbled into something important – and possibly perilous. Every time when the old wizard is involved, strange things are going to happen. What shall Father say when he learns that Mithrandir's path has led to Imladris, just as mine?_

To his utter surprise, the Lord Elrond drew the boy to a seat by his side and presented him to the Council, saying:

''Here, my friends, is the hobbit, Frodo son of Drogo. Few have ever come hither through greater peril or on an errand more urgent.''

Then he went on and pointed out and named all those the boy – the *hobbit*? – had not met before, starting with the younger Dwarf, one Gimli son of Glóin, and finishing with Boromir himself, who could not stop glaring at the strange little creature with that Elvish face, the ominous words of the Riddle of Doom rumbling in the back of his mind.

''Here'', said Elrond, turning to Mithrandir, ''is Boromir, a man from the South. He arrived a few weaks ago, in the grey morning and seeks for counsel. I have bidden him to be present, for here his questions shall be answered.''

_Or so I hope_, Boromir added in his mind, still not be able to trust the Master of Imladris completely.

''We have met'', Mithrandir replied in a quiet voice, and his eyes seemed to burrow through the younger man's mind, ''yet that was many long years ago. And it was rather his brother I had some dealings with. I hope Faramir is faring well?''

''As well as it can be expected in times of war'', Boromir replied glumly, asking himself what his brother might be doing right now and if he, indeed, was well and safe.

With that, Elrond opened the Council, and it went on and on, seemingly with no end at all. Much was said of the events in the world outside, especially in the South, and in the wide lands east of the Mountains, and Boromir listened with avid interest, for with what he already had known from the scouts of Minas Tirith and from his brother's dealings with Éomer of Rohan, he finally began to put the greater picture together – and a very dark picture it was, indeed.

It seemed that the long arm of Mordor had already reached out to take the remaining free lands in a tight grip, and there was little hope that they would be able to break that grip, ever. For it appeared, that even the hearts of the most resilient Dwarves of the far away Lonely Mountain were troubled.

Three times were they already visited by the messengers of the Dark Lord, who lured, then threatened them to win their service again, in one thing above all: to find a *hobbit* who had apparently stolen a ring from him – which, in Boromir's ears, who had faced Mordor's wrath all his life, sounded rather unlikely. So must have thought the Dwarves, too, for they gave no answer the messengers, no yes and no nay – knowing though, that they would come back, before the ending of the year.

''Heavy have the hearts of our chieftains been since that night'', Glóin, the elder of the Dwarves finished his tale. ''We needed not the fell voice of the messenger to warn us that his words held both menace and deceit; for we knew already that the power that has re-entered Mordor has not changed, and ever it betrayed us of old. And so I have been sent at last by Dáin, King Under the Mountain, to learn, if my be, why he desires this ring, this least of rings. Also we crave the advice of Elrond. For the Shadow grows and draws nearer. We discover that messengers have come also to King Brand in Dale, and that he is afraid. We fear that he may yield. Already war is gathering on his eastern borders…''

Boromir felt the weight of darkness growing upon his heart. What the old Dwarf was telling, made all his hopes – to find counsel and allies and maybe even some help in the far North – fade into nothingness. He would fail, and this time his shining city might fall with him.

He shivered, wishing to be at home once again. Whatever upcoming doom threatened Middle-earth, he wanted to face it at home, protecting his own people – and his brother – with his last breath.

Yet it would have done no good for him to show his fears before these people. Early had he learnt in the court of his father, that a leader had to show strength, did he want to master his duties as he should. So he gathered himself again and forced his straying mind to listen.

''You have done well to come'', was Elrond saying to the troubled Dwarf. ''You shall hear today all that you need in order to understand the purposes of the Enemy. There is naught that you can do, other than resist, with hope or without it. But you do not stand alone. You shall learn that your trouble is but part of the trouble of all the western world. The Ring! What shall we do with the Ring, the least of rings, the trifle that Sauron fancies? That is the doom that we must deem.''

Boromir shuddered again. Now the time has come that he learnt the meaning of that cursed dream that had haunted both him and his brother ever since the last bridge of Osgiliath collapsed behind them. The dream that robbed Faramir his sleep, that crept over his heart with dark foreboding, that made him wake up screaming when hefinally managed to fall asleep.

_Now, if the Valar grant it, it might be over_.

''That is the purpose for which you are called hither'', Elrond continued, with that annoying calm of his Kin. ''Called, I say, though I have not called you to me, strangers from distant lands. You have come and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance as it may seem. Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of the world.''

And saying that, he looked straight at Boromir, as if his next words had been directed at him, and him only.

''Now, therefore, things shall be openly spoken that have been hidden from all but a few until this day. And first, so that all may understand what is the peril, the Tale of the Ring shall be told from the beginning even to this present. And I shall begin that tale, though others shall end it.''

* * * * * * * * * * * *

**End note:**

I chose to make the chapters shorter for better reading. Didn't change anything that concerns the Council itself, though.


	2. Chapter 2: Tales and Revelations

**A Heart for Falsehood Framed**

**by Soledad**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Warning: this story contains implied m/m interaction – don't read it if it's not your thing.

Rating: PG – 13, just to be on the safe side.

**Author's notes:**

Last time I decided to break my stories into multiple chapters to make it easier to read them. I also hope to have eliminated a few nasty typos that tend to stay in the text, even after several checks.

Ah, and by the way, reviews are still much appreciated!

Chapter Two: Tales and Revelations 

Then all listened while Elrond in his clear voice spoke of Sauron and the Rings of Power, and their forging in the Second Age of the world long ago.

It was a long tale, and Boromir grew more and more impatient, for a good part of it was known to him already, having been taught the lore of the Kingdoms of Men, both in the North and in the South.

So he listened only with half an ear, his mind wandering around the badly threatened borders of Gondor – until Elrond finally came to speak of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, that had overthrown the Dark Lord at the end of the Second Age.

''I was the herald of Gil-galad, last High King of the Noldor, and marched with his host'', the Lord of Imladris said. ''I was at the Battle of Dagorlad before the Black Gate of Mordor, where we had the mastery; for the Spear of Gil-galad and the Sword of Elendil, Aiglos and Narsil, none could withstand. I beheld the last combat on the slopes of Orodruin, where Gil-galad died and Elendil fell, and Narsil broke beneath him; but Sauron himself was overthrown, and Isildur cut the Ring from his hand with the hilt-shard of his father's sword and took it for his own.''

At this, Boromir suddenly felt as if a ray of sunlight fell through a broken window into a large, shadowy room. All the searching and guessing Faramir had done back home, at once became a whole new meaning.

''So _that_ is what became of the Ring!'', he cried. ''If ever such a tale was told in the South, it has long been forgotten. I have heard of the Great Ring of him that we do not name; but we believed that it perished from the world in the ruin of his first realm. Isildur took it! That is great tidings, indeed.''

And his mind began working in frenzy with the new promises of this, wondering, how he could use these news for the good of his city.

''Alas! yes'', said Eldrond. ''Isildur took it, as should not have been. It should have been cast then into Orodruin's fire nigh at hand where it was made. But few marked what Isildur did. He alone stood by his father in that last mortal contest; and by Gil-galad only Círdan stood, and I. But Isildur would not listen to our counsel. He took the Ring to treasure it. And soon he was betrayed by it to his death; and so it is named in the North _Isildur's Bane_…''

Elrond paused, looking at Boromir's unreadable face again, fearing how these tidings would touch the heart of a Man, darkened already by the Shadow of Mordor. When he continued, his voice became soft, almost gentle.

''Only to the North did these tidings come, and only to a few. Small wonder it is that you have not heard them, Boromir. From the ruin of the Gladden Fields, where Isildur perished, three men only came ever back. One of these was the esquire of Isildur who bore the shards of the Sword of Elendil; and he brought them to Valandil, the heir of Isildur, who being but a child had remained here in Imladris. But Narsil was broken and its light estinguished, and it has not yet been forged again.''

''_That_ much I have already learnt'', Boromir muttered under his breath, remembering his first encounter with the Lord of Imladris, shortly after his arrival.

But no-one listened to him, save maybe Strider, whose eyes never seemed to leave his face, and Elrond went on to tell the tale of the North and South Kingdoms of Men – a tale of little interest for Boromir who had been taught the history of his sires and his city in great detail from his early childhood on, and indeed, he could have told a lot more about Gondor's struggles and bravery than Elrond did.

And so once Elrond ceased to speak, Boromir suddenly stood up, tall and proud before the Council, for he felt the need to speak.

''Give me leave, Master Elrond'', he said, ''first to say more of Gondor; for verily from the land of Gondor I am come, as many of you might already know. And it would be well for all to know what passes there. For few, I deem, know of our deeds, and therefore guess little of their peril, if we should fail at last.''

He paused, looking around the cold, detached faces of all the Elves sitting there; then at the wide-eyed, clearly frightened face of that… _hobbit?_ sitting between Elrond and Mithrandir, who seemed, at least, worried enough to listen; and finally at Strider, and their eyes met in a brief struggle of wills. And he continued, aiming his words directly at the Ranger.

''Believe not that in the land of Gondor the blood of Númenor is spent, nor all its pride and dignity forgotten. By our valour the wild folk of the East are still restrained, and the terror of Morgul kept at bay; and thus alone are peace and freedom mantained in the lands behind us, bulwork of the West.''

Even as he spoke, he could remember having uttered these very same words in the Golden Hall of Meduseld, before King Théoden and his court. But there, among the faithful allies of Gondor, people at least listened to him; and he had the support of his dear friend, Théodred son of Théoden, who shared his concern for the lands of Men in a way Elves, who might flee over the Sea when the peril grew too close, could never have done.

''And yet the hour of our fall, maybe, is not far away'', he added bitterly. ''The nameless Enemy has arisen again. Smoke rises once more from Orodruin that we call Mount Doom. The power of the Black Land grows and we are hard beset. Osgiliath has fallen, finally, the last bridge destroyed. We are fighting with our backs against the wall.''

''Is that why you came here to find the meaning of a dream that was sent to you and your brother as a foresight?'', Legolas asked, speaking for the first time. ''The right place you have chosen, it seems. For you have learnt of _Isildur's Bane_, finally, and what it might bring for us all.''

''And here, in the house of Elrond, more shall be made clear for you'', said Strider, standing up. He cast his sword upon the table that stood before Elrond, and Boromir saw that its blade was broken in two pieces. And parts of the riddle that had haunted his mind for a hundred and thirty days, finally began to fit together, though there were still some that stayed unclear for him – Strider being one of those.

''And who are you and what have you do with Minas Tirith?'' he asked, looking suspiciously at the lean face of the Ragner and his weather-stained cloak.

For he did not forget the feast that had been held to greet the return of Elladan and Elrohir – where Strider was clad like an Elven-prince, sitting on the side of Elrond's daughter, the Lady Undómiel of the songs, like someone who had the right to be _that_ close to her.

''He is Aragorn son of Arathorn'', said Elrond; ''and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil's son on Minas Ithil. He is the Chief of the Dúnedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk.''

Boromir glared at the Ranger in disbelief… not that he could not have imagine him as a descendant of the Northern Kings, for Strider certainly showed all the outer signs of high Númenorean blood – he was only reluctant to accept the possibility that someone from that bloodline would still be walking on earth. The North-kingdom had fallen eighty years earlier than the last King of Gondor vanished, after all.

''_This_ is Isildur's Heir?'' he repeated doubtfully.

''And Heir to the throne of Gondor'', Legolas quietly added. ''You owe him your allegiance.''

Strider – no, _Aragorn_ – seemed uncomfortable with the Prince of Mirkwood speaking up on his behalf.

''Not now, Legolas'', he murmured.

But Boromir only sat there, unmoving, for what seemed  to him forever. Now he believed to understand the game that was played here – and Elrond's role in it – and the need of secrecy that had kept him in the dark so long. Yet he thought it wiser not to show his full understanding, and he only stated in a low, but very clear voice:

''Gondor _has_ no King. Gondor _needs_ no King.''

No-one but Elrond, Mithrandir and Aragorn himself seemed to have heard this statement, and the deep eyes of the wizard became even more worried for a moment. The others, however, turned towards the little, bare-footed creature Elrond had named Frodo, who sprang to his hairy feet in amazement and cried to Aragorn:

''Then it belongs to you, and not to me at all!''

Strangely, this seemed to bring the little fellow great relief.

''It does not belong to either of us'', said Aragorn; ''but it has been ordained that you should hold it for a while.''

To that, the Elvish face of the little one clouded again with sorrow, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. _Strange_, Boromir thought absently, feeling almost sorry for him.

''Bring out the Ring, Frodo!'' said Mithrandir solemnly. ''The time has come. Hold it up, and then Boromir would understand the remainder of his riddle.''

_Oh, but I do understand it, Mithrandir_, the son of Denethor thought, while the small, trembling hand of the hobbit held up the gleaming and flickering golden circle. _I understand it better than you might believe. 'Tis not the first finely-plotted game of power I have seen in my life… being the son and Heir of one of the greatest game-masters of Middle-earth. Indeed, I understand all too well what has been going on for years here, in the North_.

''Behold _Isildur's Bane_!'' said Elrond.

Boromir's eyes glinted as he gazed at the golden thing before him.

''The Halfling!'' he muttered. ''Now I have all parts of the Riddle of Doom that sent me here from the far South. Yet what good could us do a Sword that has been lying in shards for three thousand years?''

He looked at Aragorn with more than mere doubt in his eyes. The Ranger did not answer.  But the other Halfling that was sitting aside (a very old and withered-looking fellow), suddenly stood and burst out impatiently something that maybe was meant to sound like a verse of forgotten lore, yet sounded clumsy, like a lullaby rhyme, in Boromir's ears.

_All that is gold does not glitter,_

_Not all those who wander are lost;_

_The old that is strong does not wither,_

_Deep roots are not reached by the frost._

_From the ashes a fire shall be woken,_

_A light from the shadows shall spring;_

_Renewed shall the blade that was broken:_

_The crownless again shall be King._

''Not very good perhaps'', the battered old Halfling added (which, in Boromir's opinion, was an understatement), ''but to the point – if you need more beyond the word of Elrond. If that was worth a journey of a hundred and ten days to hear, you had best listen to it.''

He sat down with a snort. Boromir did not answer. The Halfling was of little importance for him, though it bothered him that the little goblin seemed to know everything he had told of himself in Elrond's house. Yet his true adversary was the one in that weather-stained cloak.

Strider – _Aragorn_, he reminded himself, _say Aragorn, you get better used to it_ – felt his sharp gaze and turned to him.

''For my part I forgive your doubt'', he said.

_How gracious of you!_, Boromir thought with a snort.

''Little do I resemble the figures of Elendil and Isildur as they stand carven in their majesty in the halls of Denethor. I am but the Heir of Isildur, not Isildur himself. The days of our House have darkened, and we have dwindled; but ever the Sword has passed to a new keeper, in a long line unbroken from father unto son, for many fenerations.''

''Hiding in the wilderness like frightened children while the Stewards ruled the White City and kept the enemy at bay'', Boromir countered in a low voice that only the Ranger could hear – or maybe some of the Elves, for Elrond gave him a sharp look, and Legolas seemed disturbed.

Aragorn frowned but controlled his rising anger.

''You might see us like that. But this I will say to you, son of Denethor, ere I end. Lonely men we are, Rangers of the Wild, hunters – but hunters ever of the servants of the Enemy; for they are found in many places, not in Mordor only.''

''For how great a fool do you hold me, son of Arathorn, if that is who you truly are?'' Boromir replied coolly. ''Am I not the son and the Heir of the Steward? Minas Tirith has dealings with many countries far from our shores, and the Lord Denethor has often means to come to tidings lesser Men might not have. Well aware I am of the peril that is threatening us all – save the ones that Elven secrecy kept hidden from my eyes.''

Aragorn sighed, clearly tired of his accusations.

''If Gondor, Boromir, has been a stalwart tower, we have played another part.'', he said.  ''Many evil things there are that your strong walls and bright swords do not stay. You know little of the lands beyond your bounds. Peace and freedom, you say? The North would have known little but for us. Fear would have destoyed them. And yet less thanks we have than you. Travellers scowl at us and countrymen gave us scornful names.'' His storm-grey eyes glinted. ''But now the world is changing once again. A new hour comes. *Isildur's Bane* is found. Battle is at hand. The Sword shall be reforged. I shall come to Minas Tirith.''

_And we shall see just how that would help anyone!_, Boromir thought darkly, imagining the wrath of his father upon hearing these ''good'' tidings. _Nay, son of Arathorn, you shall not simply come down South and take our precious city that our sires had cared for and kept safe and defended with their lives, ruling it with great strength and wisdom. If you believe that Denethor son of Ecthelion shall step down to be the dotard chamberlain of an upstart, then you are even bigger a fool than I have thought of you_.

But out loud he only said this much:

''_Isildur's Bane_ is found, you say. I have seen a bright ring in the Halfling's hand; but Isildur perished ere this age of the world began, they say. How do the Wise know that this ring is his? And how has it passed down the years, until it is brought hither by so strange a messenger?''

''That shall be told'', said Elrond.

''But not yet, I beg, Master'', the older one of the Halflings said. ''Already the Sun is climbing to noon, and I feel the need of something to strengthen me.''

''I had not named you'', said Elrond smiling. ''But I shall do so, soon. Yet you were right about  the pass of time. We shall take a short break from our Council – for much needs to be spoken of yet, and it could reach into the evening hours. We shall return here in one hour's time.''

With that, he rose and left, and his counsellors followed him. The others trailed out as well, leaving Aragorn and Boromir alone behind. The Ranger, too, stood up and turned towards Boromir, but Denethor's son could not bear another word with him. So he turned away harshly and stomped out in silent fury.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He returned to his room in the guest house, trying to keep his temper under control, for much of what he had learnt so far made his blood boil with anger. Thinking of the way these Elves lulled him into a half-dream of peace and safety while secretly working on taking his inheritance from him and putting that… that lowly Ranger on the throne of the greatest City of the Third Age…

''Oh, here you are'', the soft, pleasant voice of his lover jerked him out of his dark thoughts.

Elladan stood in one of the open arches that served as windows and entrances likewise. He wore the rough grab of the Rangers already, to conceal himself from prying eyes while on his way in the Wild, and his long, raven hair was bound in a tight ponytail on the back of his head. He looked annoyingly young and innocent, even for an Elf, and for some reason this angered Boromir even more.

_Elves_, he thought in disgust, _what do they know about the struggles of short-living Men? What has it been that awoke his interest in me? What might his part be in all this?_

''How did it go, I wonder?'' Elrond's eldest continued; then, taking a look at Boromir's face, he frowned. ''Not well, I guess.''

''Oh, but it went better than your people might have expected'', Boromir replied in a voice that sounded unusually harsh, even for his own ears. ''I have learnt many things, indeed. More, mayhap, than I was meant to learn – or even understand.''

''And just _what_ have those things been, if you do not mind my asking?'' Elladan raised an arched eyebrow even higher.

''I shall tell you in a moment'', Boromir said. ''But first answer _me_ a question of some importance: What in Middle-earth does your sister, the Lady Arwen, have to do with this Strider… I mean, Estel… I mean, Aragorn, Isildur's Heir?''

Elladan did not seem to consider the question unseemly – at least not from someone he shared his bed with. It was a family matter, after all.

''Why, the two are betrothed to each other'', he answered with a shrug. ''Long and hard has been their way toward happiness, and whether they ever shall be able to reach fulfillment, I cannot say. For our father, though he had always loved Estel as if he were his own child, announced, that Arwen Undómiel shall not diminish her life's grace for a cause less than the second and final victory over the Shadow. She shall not be the bride of any Man less than the King of both Gondor and Arnor. Yet we all fear that even if we might be victorious, to Arwen the Doom of Men may seem hard at the ending.''

This revelation, though not fully surprising for him after all what he had learnt and observed on this very day, did not serve to sooth Boromir's boiling anger.

''So this is how your father intends to unite Middle-earth under his own rule?'', he spat, fuming. ''Through the groin of his children? Letting his daughter wed the self-exclaimed King of Arnor and demanding from him Gondor as a wedding gift? And allowing _you_ to bed Gondor's Heir, in hope that you can distract me with your skills enough to make me accept that ursurper on Gondor's throne?''

Elladan did not even ad much as flinch to these horrible accusations, only his face became very, very pale and his lips tightened to a thin line.

''I have heard that Men often feel the need to hurt those who love them most deeply'', he finally said in a strangely flat voice, ''yet I could not believe it – until now. Are your pain and anger truly so great that you need to hurt me in such a cruel way? I gave you everything I could. I do not regret _that_. I only regret that it was not enough to lift the shadow off your heart.''

With that, he turned around and left – not disappearing in that unnerving Elvish way but with the slow, faltering steps of the mortally wounded. A very… mortal departure it was, indeed.

Boromir slumped into a big chair, still trembling with anger and bitter disappointment over all what happened in the Council. It took him some time till the true meaning of Elladan's words sickered through the thick layers of fear, mistrust and pain that guarded his heart – and when it finally happened, it struck him like an iron fist.

He never thought that Ellandan might fall for him this deeply. Theirs was an affair of convenience, limited by time, the narrow-minded customs of Gondor and his own heart that was no more his to give… for it had been given a long time ago, once and forever.

But he did not want to cause the same anguish and pain he had suffered most of his life the brave and gentle Elf who had so unexpectedly offered him comfort only a few weeks ago; who healed him and lifted his spirits as far as it could be done in such a short time.

Now, curse to his stubborn pride, he destroyed the best thing he had ever been given. Tonight, he would not lie in the safety of Elladan's arms, would not feel the warmth of that tall, slender body spooned up against his back. No soft, low voice would sing to him in his sleep, keeping the nightmares of that shadow away that fell upon his heart under the ruined bridge of Osgiliath.

At that thought, Denethor's son hid his face in his hands, breaking down in tears, for the first time since his mother's death.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End note:**

Originally, there would have been the end of Part One. I wrote this story in three major parts, because at that time I still haven'' figured out how the chaptering system worked. Now, that I've mastered the secrets of online wizardry (to this extremely low level anyway), I'm putting the story together again, adding some more scenes of importance. 


	3. Chapter 3: The Sword That Was Broken

**A Heart for Falsehood Framed**

**by Soledad**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Rating: PG – 13, just to be on the safe side.

**Author's notes:**

Some time ago I've begun to write an AU-version of my Boromir-storyline for Isabeau's birthday (not that it would be finished by then, mind you), where he and Elladan would live happily ever after. Well, after much anguish and pain, of course.

I've written several new scenes for that story, and after having asked my most faithful readers' opinion, I decided to insert those scenes in the canon story. _This_ is the tale of true importance, after all, and it deserves to have the better scenes as well. So, be prepared for more anguish.

For all the background trivia check out Chapter One.

Many, many thanks to all those who reviewed Chapter One –  you really gave me inspiration, people!

Isabeau: thank you for allowing me to use Faramir's harp lessons – I just couldn't resist, with Elrohir being an excellent harp player the comparism was simply too hard to avoid.

Deborah: I promise, I _will_ fix things between our star-crossed lovers – as far as it is possible. Actually, I planned it to do right here, for I never intended to do a three-parter, but the need to give Boromir some proof of Aragorn's heritage was more urgent; plus the Elves talked too much in that darn Council. But I'll do it in the final part, I swear!

Chapter Three: The Sword That Was Broken 

I know not how I got over the Bridge blindly. It must have been pure instinct.

For blinded I was by the unshed tears that burnt in my eyes like fire.

Like on that long-gone day of my childhood when I visited the smiths in their workshop and stared at the glowing iron in fearful amazement.

I nearly lost my eyesight on that day.

Had one of the smiths not spotted me, I might be the only blind Elf in Imladris now.

Mayhap it would be better so; for were I blind, I had never noticed him, never fell for him – and he could not have broken my hart.

He called me a whore.

He accused me of sharing my bed – of sharing _myself_ – with him only for Father's purposes and for Estel's sake.

I wish it were so. _That_ would certainly be a lot less painful.

Valar, I never thought love could hurt this much.

I knew that losing Mother nearly made Father flee his body and seek relief in the Halls of Mandos – but they had been married and very much in love for two thousand years.

I only met him mere weeks ago. How could I have fallen for him so deeply?

He called me a whore.

He thinks I would deceive him.

He thinks Father would send his children in mortal Men's bed, in order to gain power and influence over the remains of fading Westernesse.

What a horrible father must _his_ be if he can assume such thing from _mine_?

And that he would accuse _me_ doing thus at Father's orders?

Does he truly think so lowly of me?

Or was he just lashing out in his pain, in his wounded pride and I happened to be there – at the wrong time, on the wrong place?

I cannot say.

'Tis true, we never spoke of love. I offered him solace and sought the same thing for myself.

And that was what _I have_ found.

Naught else.

He loves me not, and I knew this and accepted this.

Why I had to fall in love with him, I cannot understand.

And yet there is naught I can do against my own, foolish heart.

I fell for him in our first night and I cannot undo this.

Nor do I wish to do so.

Love is beyond our reach to gain or to quench.

For love is as stong as death and passion is as harsh as the grave, or so the songs of mortal Men say.

I seem to go after my mortal ancestors even more than any one had thought – including myself.

And that is my curse.

Were I Elf enough, I could die of broken heart and heal my _fëa_(1) in Mandos' Halls. Yet I cling to his life with a mortal stubbornness, and not even Death itself could make me forget him.

Nor would I want to. Despite how muich he hurt me, I love him, and I always will. What we had was more than a simpe merry thryst in the hay. Our souls have mated as well, somewhen during our first night of beautiful, shared passion, and even if we shall never touch each other again – which is likely after what just happened – we are now bonded for eternity.

By the Lady's grace(2), he knows that not. Mortals bond themselves not in such way – 'tis very rare among them at best. So, at least he shall be able to forget and go on with his life.

_If_ he survives what leas before him, that is.

For I can see the darkness deepening in his heart, and now that I cannot shield him any more, he is in greater peril than ever.

And when he falls into darkness, then so will I.

I cannot walk this Earth without him.

Not any more.

I might endure losing him as long as I know that he is still around. But once he is gone, there shall be naught that would tie me to Arda.

Passion is as harsh as the grave.

Valar, but it hurts.

How grateful I am that we shall be gone in mere hours. While we scout out the way til Lothlórien, I might recover a little. Time and distance shall heal the wounds – as well as they can be healed.

My brother is coming.

Of course he feels that I am deeply troubled, no matter how har I try to shield my feelings.

We always can feel each other's emotional turmoil and never let the other suffer if we can be of help.

But I cannot face him right now.

I cannot admit that he was right when he told me that I would get hurt, sooner or later, when I give my heart to this Man.

Of course he was right. But does it matter now? I have lost my heart and it shall be his, for ever.

''Go away, Elrohir'', I murmur, without looking at him. ''Leave me alone. You cannot help me. No-one can.''

He says something I hear but understand not; then he sits down beside me and lays an arom around my shoulder, holding me tightly.

And my tears finally begin to flow.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After that short but very ugly fight with Elladan – if one could truly call it a fight, for Elladan did not even fought back, nor did he defend himself, simply endured being unjustly hurt and then left with quiet dignity, never uttering as much as a harsh word, only his clear eyes darkening with bewilderment and sorrow –, Boromir had little time to wall in guilt and self-hatred. Hardly had he somewhat collected himself, when Legolas appeared almost magically from the nearby trees and knocked softly on one of the pillars framing the arched entrance.

''The Lord Elrond requires to speak you before the Council sets on anew'', he said. ''He asked me to escort you to the old library.''

His deep emerald eyes searched Boromir's face worriedly, and the Man gave him a wry grin. With red, puffy eyes and reddened cheeks, he must have been quite a sight for those curious Elven eyes.

''Yet the time might not… suit you'', the Prince of Mirkwood added, already turning away. ''I shall tell Elrond that you are… otherwise occupied.''

''I fear that would give him the wrong idea'', Boromir muttered ruefully. ''Nay, I shall go with you, my Lord Prince, and face whatever the Master of the House has yet to tell me.''

Legolas accepted his decision without a comment, and they made the well-known way to Elrond's house in silence. Before they had reached the east wing, though, the Elf held on for a moment and said with quiet honesty:

''Whatever you might think of us, son of Denethor, and I fear naught of it is good at the moment, we are not your enemies. Try to keep an open mind, listen to your heart, not your fears… for if you surrender to the darkness, no-one shall be able to bring you back.''

With that, he disappeared into thin air again – or so it seemed –, leaving Boromir wondering whether Wood-Elves were unjustly accused of messing with magics.

But there were more pressing matters at the moment than Legolas' possible pastime wizardry, so he knocked on the heavy door (the first one, in truth, that he could remember having seen in Imladris), and entered a large, shadowy room that was Elrond's old library. Or so Legolas had said.

At the first sight, it reminded him of the secret archives of the Stewards in Minas Tirith, where no-one but the Lord Denethor was allowed access – not even his own sons, to Faramir's great displeasure. But this one was bigger – almost thrice at size –, and older, much older.

Scrolls and books, written in tongues probably not even Elrond himself could understand, filled the delicately carved shelves that reached from the marble-paved floor up to the shadowy heights of arched ceilings. Small writing desks and longer reading tables were scattered along the great hall, and here and there beautiful statues stood, carved in stone in the likeness of the heroes of half-forgotten Elvish lays.

Somewhat farther from the doors, near the fire, three men were seated around a small table: Elrond himself, Isildur's supposed Heir and Mithrandir, who seemed the most upset of them all. Boromir still could not fully understand what Mithrandir's role might be in this game, but, as his father often quoted: _Do not meddle in the affairs of Wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger._

And, on more than one occasion, the Lord Denethor added: _And this Mithrandir is the worst of all. I do not care for Curunír – for though he might be called the White, there is darkness in his heart, and locked doors and closed windows in his mind, and dark rooms behind them; and Radagast, the Brown is a fool. But Mithrandir never ceases to stray around like a rabid dog and meddle in the affairs of Elves and Men – and naught has ever turned out good from all his meddlings._

Faramir, for his part, had never agreed with their father's opinion concerning the old wizard, for he admired Mithrandir and was glad if given the chance to learn from him. Yet Boromir could not help guessing whether it might be, in truth, not Elrond but the wizard himself who guided the pathways of fate from the background.

Sure, he always showed the face of a friend, but again, so did Curunír and now the Orc-hosts of Isengard were roaming the Mark, threatening the very gates of Rohan, and Théodred and Éomer were fighting desperately to keep the fords against them, while the King of the Mark was fading under a strange spell and the Lady Éowyn left alone to try keeping the House of Éorl from collapsing.

He did reveal naught of these thoughts, of course, forcing his hand back from clutching tightly Éowyn's clasp upon his throat. Among all this madness, his word given to that brave woman was the only thing he still could hold on to. He let his hand fall along his side again, greeted Elrond with due curtesy and asked for the purpose of this separate meeting.

''We wish to speak with you about the more… private matter of Aragorn's ancestry'', the Lord of Imladris responded gravely. ''I admit that it was not one of my wisest decisions to keep you in the dark about him. Legolas has warned me several times, ever since your arrival, yet I did not found the time proper, not before the Council where every secret was meant to be laid open.''

''You should have listened to him'', Mithrandir said. ''Legolas has an almost uncanny gift to read in other people's hearts.''

''I readily admit my error'', Elrond said, but his words were aimed at Boromir, not the wizard, ''and I intend to make up for my wrongdoing right here, right now. We all understand that you would need more proof ere you would accept Aragorn's claim – it has been so long that the line of the Northern Kings seemingly got lost. But ever since the death of King Arvedui in the Bay of Frochel his son and their sons' sons have lived in hidden places in the North, waiting for their time to return.''

Elrond paused, took a heavy, leather-bound volume from a nearby shelf and laid it open before Boromir upon the small table. The slightly crackled leaves got a slightly yellowish colour from high age and were written upon and upon with the beautiful, ancient Tengwar runes, used only by the high lords of the Noldor and only for ceremonial matters. Therefore, the tongue in which it was written had to be Quenya, Boromir concluded. He understood very little of the Ancient Tongue of the Eldar, but he could figure out as much that it was some sort of list, with short comments to each name listed there.

''These are the Annals of Northern Kings and Rulers, written here, in my house'', Elrond said, ''and by the hand of my people, during long generations of Men's lives. For after Arvedui, the North-Kingdom ended, the Dúnedain were now few, and all the peoples of Eriador diminished. Yet the line of the Kings was continued by the Chieftains of the Dúnedain, of whom Aranarth son of Arvedui was the first. Arhael, his son, was fostered in Imladris, and so were all the sons of the Chieftains after him; and, as I have already told you once, there were also kept the heirlooms of their house: the Ring of Barahir, the shards of Narsil, the Star of Elendil and the sceptre of Annúminas.''

He touched Boromir's arm lightly, leading him to one of the statues, the figure of a fair but sad maiden, who kept the shards of Elendil's sword upon her lap.

Drawn to the broken blade almost against his will, Boromir reached out and took the hilt in his hand. It fitted beautifully, as if he was meant to wield it. He was raised to rule over the last city of Númenorean Kings, after all.

''The shards of Narsil'', he murmured, believing it truly for the first time. ''The blade that cut the Ring from Sauron's hand…''

He caressed the shard with his free hand with respect and admiration, ere he realized that he had just spoken the name of him who was never named in Minas Tirith. He shuddered involuntarily; his hand slipped, and the broken blade cut deep in his flesh.

''Still sharp'', he noticed absently, starring at his own blood, dripping slowly from the wounded finger upon the marble pavement. The bright red blood of Númenor wasting away, slowly but inevitably.

He shuddered again, his face hardening back to its usual tense alertness.

''But no more than a broken hilt it is.''

The sword fell when he tried to replace it on the statue. Aragorn stood with one smooth move, picked it up and returned it to its place.

''Not yet'', he agreed in a low voice. ''Too long it has rested. Fifteen Chieftains there were, until I was born, less than a year later than your own father. And I have had a hard life and a long. The leagues that lie between here and Gondor are a small part in the count of my journeys. I have crossed many mountains and many rivers, and trodden many plains, even into the far countries of Rhún and Harad where the stars are strange.''

Boromir only half-listened to him. The bleeding stopped; yet the other cut, the one in his very heart, was deeper. Now that he had given proof – for the Star of Elendil, the sceptre of Annúminas and the Ring of Barahir were well-known in Gondor, and he would have recognized them from the pictures he had been shown in his childhood even wthout help – he had to come to terms with the truth. And it was not easy.

He might not be as good around books as Faramir, but even he could see that the Annals were not fake, either. Which meant that the time of the Ruling Stewards had come to an end. The Heir of Denethor shall not take over the White City from his father as his sires did before him, back to Mardil Voronwë. For ere he could do that, Isildur's Heir shall come and take it from him.

Take everything from him.

''I have to give these things some thought'', he said abruptly and – not waiting for an answer – left.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Elrond looked after him, his usually calm face troubled.

''You still believe it was wise to call him to his meeting?'', he asked Aragorn. The future King of Gondor nodded.

''Now more than before. Legolas was right. It was an error to keep the truth from him – an error we might come to regret yet. He is an honourable man. He shall accept the changing of times. Yet we have mistrusted him, and that is something he shall not forget easily.''

But the wizard shook his head in doubt.

''Sometimes, Aragorn, being a man of honour might not be enough. He is driven by many forces that pull him toward opposite ways, and his sense of honour could be the downfall of him – of us all. Were we dealing with his brother, my sleep would be less troubled. But him – being raised to rule, not to serve – I know not what he is capable of.''

''His only concern is the safety of Minas Tirith, the White City that he loves with all his heart'', said Aragorn, ''and indeed, I am concerned about it, too. Thus we already have something in common. I intend to build upon that.''

''Then you might be building upon quicksand'', the wizard warned.''

''I know that, Gandalf'', Aragorn replied with a sight, calling his old friend by his common name for the first time; ''but whom should I trust if not the future Steward of my kingdom? I cannot hope to take my throne and rule the lands without his help.''

He stood and left the library to seek some solitude among the trees of one of the many gardens of Elrond's house.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) The Elven equivalent of the essence of any incarnate being. The physical part of an Elf's being (= his body) is called the _hröa_.

(2) Meaning Elbereth (or Varda), Queen of the Valier and patron of the Elves, to whom they usually pray.


	4. Chapter 4: A Short Interlude

**A Heart for Falsehood Framed**

**by Soledad**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Rating: PG – 13, just to be on the safe side.

**Author's notes:**

This an additional chapter that I felt the need to show in, after having inserted some scenes from the AU-version. Otherwise I'd have ended up with monster chapters that are too bothersome to read.

Chapter 4: A Short Interlude 

The Lord of the Valley looked after Aragorn's retreating back for awhile; then he turned to Gandalf again and shook his head in silent despair.

''What is your advice for us now, Mithrandir?'', he asked. ''The Enemy is moving. Sauron's forces are massing in the East. The Eye is fixed on Imladris. And you have just told me Saruman has betrayed us. The list of our allies grows thin.''

The wizard sighed, and despite his great might, all of a sudden he looked naught more than a tired old Man, who had just lost something very precious to him.

''His treachery goes deeper than you know'',  he said, his voice broken and full of sorrow. At Falcraft, Saruman has crossed Orcs with goblin men. He is breeding an army in the caverns of Isengard. An army that can move in sunlight, and travel great distances at speed. Saruman is coming for the Ring. We are caught between two fires.''

''Thus much is clear for me, as well'', answered Elrond, ''yet this evil cannot be concealed by the power of the Elves. We do not have the strength to stand against Mordor and  Isengard both. The Ring cannot stay here.''

''I am aware of that, my Lord Elf'', the wizard said with sad mockery.

But Elrond only half-listened to him. His eyes were turned to the westward windows and looked far away to something he only could see with his heart.

''The age of Elves is over'', he murmured. ''My people are leaving these shores, and soon, I shall be on one of those ships that set sail from the Grey Havens. Who will you turn to, my friend, once we are gone? The Dwarves hide in their mountains seeking riches and care not for the troubles of others.''

''Even Dwarves might come to surprise you one day'', the wizard offered mildly, ''though we most likely shall have to wait for _that_ a little longer. Yet it is not the Dwarves we shall lean onto on this quest. We must place our hope in Men.''

''Men!'', Elrond gave a rather undignified snort. ''The race of Men is weak, failing. The blood of Númenor is all but spent, its pride and dignity forgotten. It is because of Men that the Ring survives. I was there, three thousand years ago, when Isildur took the Ring. I was there when the strength of Men failed.''

''And when your King has fallen, and all his bravery and his great sacrifice was in vain; I know'', Mithrandir added gently, his deep eyes resting on the tormented face of the Elf-Lord. Though not yet on Middle-earth at that time, he knew all too well what Gil-galad, last High King of the Noldor meant to Elrond.

The Lord of the Valley still was lost among his painful memories, reliving the last battle upon Dagorlad, where the true victory of a long and bitter war got utterly lost.

''I led Isildur into the heart of Mount Doom, where it was forged, the one place it could be destroyed'', he continued with that far-away look in his eyes that seemed somewhat… eerie to the wizard. As if Elrond had been given up entirely, letting himself fade away as Elves sometimes did when the burden of life finally became too much for them.

''It should have ended that day, but evil was allowed to endure'', he continued, self-loathing clearly recognizable in his voice. ''Isildur kept the Ring, because of my own weakness. Because of the weakness of Men, that is in _my_ blood, as well.''

''The only way to hinder him in keeping the Ring would have been to kill him'', said the wizard slowly, gravely. ''And how can you be sure that you would have the strength to destroy the Ring, after you had taken a life for it? Nay, my Lord; that would have brought no good for you – or for those you protected.''

''What, then, should we do, Mithrandir?'', Elrond asked, finally turning away from the western window. ''The line of the Kings is broken in Gondor, and even if Estel reclaims the throne, what strength could the white city of Anárion still gather to withstand Sauron?''

''None'', the wizard answered solemnly, ''nor is the Ring to come to Gondor. For the Steward of the city is a strong-willed Man who does not bend easily, just as his eldest son who is fuming in your guest house right now. To let him near the Ring would be dangerous.''

''I never intended to send the Ring to Gondor'', Elrond said. ''If _we_ cannot protect it here, Denethor son of Ecthelion can protect it even less – from Sauron or from others, including himself.''

''In your heart, you already know what we have to do'', the wizard stated with a certainty that not only came from their long friendship but from a knowledge not even Elrond could truly imagine.

''My heart only speaks to me of the Sea'', Elrond admitted sadly. ''The Call is growing stronger with every passing year, Mithrandir. I know not how long I shall be able to withstand it… and the longing to be reunited with the Lady of my heart.''

''You must hold out a little longer'', said the wizard gently. ''You cannot leave, not yet. As long as the One is there, you shall be needed.''

''And I would not part, leaving my duty undone behind'', Elrond replied gravely. ''Thus I had sworn to my King ere he went to Mandos' Halls. But remaining here drains me from all my strength.''

The wizard sighed.

''It shall be not very long now'', he murmured softly. ''One way or another, the fate of the Ring shall be fulfilled. If we succeed or fall, there shall be an end of all things we had known for all our life.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Elrohir could feel that somethign was wrong. His brother, who had been floating on a cloud of happiness and utter satisfaction for days – ever since he spontaneously decided to take the Heir of Gondor in his bed – suddenly had raised his inner shields, blocking him completely.

Something most certainly was wrong.

Elladan never shut him out before.

Not until the night when he have himself to that mortal.

That was the very moment when they started to drift apart. After two and a half thousand years, they became slightly estranged.

Elrohir knew he was not without guilt in this, himself.

He could not accept Elladan's choice, though he was careful enough not to show his disapproval before the eyes of the Man.

He had been certain that Elladan would be hurt.

And he had been right, it seemed.

Coming to a sudden decision, Elrond left his chambers through the adjoining balcony that connected them with those of his brother's.

Elladan sat on the paved floor, his long legs pulled up to his chest and he hugged them tightly, his brow laid on his knees to hide his face.

He was as still as a statue.

He did not even seem to breathe.

But he felt Elrohir's approach, of course. Even now, after he had shut him out from his troubled feelings.

They always felt each other, even through their inner shields.

They were much too close not to.

Elladan, however, was not in the mood to share his feelings.

''Go away, Elrohir'', he murmured, without looking at his brother. ''Leave me alone. You cannot help me. No-one can.''

Elrohir sighed, sat down beside his twin and laid an arm around his shoulders, holding him tightly.

''Try me'', he said quietly.

But Elladan was beyond listening already.

He was beyond speaking, too.

Only the deep, wrecking, soundless sobs that shook his whole body proved that he was still alive.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**And even more notes (I know, it is annoying, but necessary):**

The Tolkien purists among us might take an offense on the fact that I have inserted some purely movie scenes in this story, that usually follows the book canon. What's more, I do not even follow the movie canon with these ones!

So let me tell you something: shameful as it is, I never really connected with Boromir in all those years that I've known the books, until I've seen the movie. I confess to not particularly like it, for many different reasons, but it had one great advantage: it had Sean Bean, whose powerful performance got me interested in Boromir in the first place.

Much of Boromir's deeds and dialogues did not made it into the movie, but they gave him a few wonderful scenes instead, one of them being the above-presented one with the shards of Narsil. It is so wonderful and so in character, I believe the Great Maker himself would be impressed with it.

So I took it and used it, just as I used some of what he said before the Council, and as I intend to use all his good scenes from the movie, because he is a wonderful character, and if we put together what he was given in the books and what he was given in the movie, we get some amazing results at the end.

As for Gandalf and Elrond's little talk, it is only partially from the movie, and contains some hints to other upcoming stories. Unfortunately, I can't tell just now which ones they are. g


	5. Chapter 5: One Ring To Rule Them All...

**A Heart for Falsehood Framed**

**by Soledad**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Rating: PG – 13, just to be on the safe side.

Chapter Four: One Ring to Rule Them All… 

But none of them could give much thought all these recent events, for the bell called them back to the Council again. All were gathered there already when Boromir arrived and took his seat, and the older of the Halflings was asked to finally tell the story of the finding of the Ring.

And tell he did, at full length, reconing his adventure with one foul creature called Gollum, and from the surprised, even a little angry looks the Dwarves cast him Boromir guessed that he must have told _them_ a different story earlier.

On and on he went, and Boromir grew increasingly bored, for the scratchy voice of the little goblin cut into his already tortured mind, not letting him at least think of something else.

_Like mending fences with Elladan?_, the cruel little voice from inside inquired.

Finally Elrond took pity on him and raised his hand.

''Well told, my friend'', he said to the Halfling, ''but that is enough at this time.'' With what Boromir whole-heartedly agreed. Another five minutes and he would have strangled the little thing. ''For the moment it suffices to know that the Ring passed to Frodo, your heir. Let him now speak.''

The little fellow with that innocent, Elvish face and deep blue eyes stood less willingly than his kinsman, yet he did it nonetheless, and told all of his dealings with the Ring from the day it passed into his keeping.

Boromir listened to him with rapt interest, and could not help feeling sorry for this troubled little creature who so clearly did not want to do anything with Rings of Power and wars and weapons. And yet on he went, leaving behind anything that was dear to his little heart, hunted by the same nameless horror that touched _him_ under the ruined bridge of Osgiliath, and reached his goal against all odds.

How could a born warrior like Boromir not admire the little one? Such selfless bravery deserved respect, for at least.

After the young hobbit finished his tale, the silver-haired Galdor of the Havens, who sat nearby, wrapped in a grey cloak against the cooling weather, turned to Elrond in askance.

''The Wise may have good reason to believe that the Halfling's trove is indeed the Great Ring of long debate, unlikely though that may seem to those who know less. But may we not hear the proof?''

A few of the others nodded in agreement. Boromir did so, himself, though he had seen more than enough proof of things he did not want to learn, for not only one day but for a whole lifetime.

_Do not think about _that_ now_, he warned himself, forcing his mind to listen to the council. He could not let himself miss aught. The fate of Minas Tirith might have been at stake by every morsel of tidings these people offered so very reluctantly. _His_ city, no matter who might be called King over her one day. No birthright would make Isildur's Heir bound to her every stone the way the Heir of the Stewards was bound to her – through countless centuries of love and faithful service his father's fathers inherited upon him.

''And what of Saruman?'', the grey-cloaked Elf from the Havens added. ''He is learned in the lore of the Rings, yet he is not among us. What is his counsel – if he knows the things that we have heard?''

_What, indeed?_, Boromir thought grimly. _Is there more behind the wizard's treachery towards Rohan than the hunger for even more power? If Curunír knows about the Ring, then mayhap his moves in the Mark are but preparations for a much bigger war. And if Théodred's guess is right and Isengard is now in league with the Dark Tower, then we are truly lost. Tarrying here instead of preparing for war is folly. One that we might regret deeply, ere the day of battles shall dawn_.

Yet he said naught, waiting for these oh-so-wise people to finally tell what they truly knew. This was something he needed to learn.

''Some, Galdor'', said Mithrandir, ''would think the tidings of Glóin, and the pursuit of Frodo, proof enough that the Halfling's trove is a thing of great worth to the Enemy. Yet it is a Ring. What then? The Nine the Nazgúl keep. The Seven are taken or destroyed…''

At this Glóin stirred, but did not speak, and Boromir silently wondered what might have become of the Rings the Dwarf Kings were given. There, he suspected, lay another dark tale, full of blood and sorrow, yet he doubted very much that he would ever hear of it. Dwarves were no more forthcoming when it came to share tidings about themselves then Elves were.

''The Three we know of'', Mithrandir continued, not giving any details, to Boromir's dismay. ''What then is this one that he desires so much?''

Mithrandir went on, telling them how he had searched for tidings about the Great Ring, facing even the newly-awakened Enemy in his lesser dwelling, the black tower of Dol Guldur in Southern Mirkwood, and how he made the White Council to put forth its strength for one last time and drive Sauron out of there – in the very year of the finding of this Ring.

Which, as Boromir himself new all too well, happened already too late. For it was his father, the Lord Denethor, who had to face both Minas Morgul, where the Nameless Fear dwelt, and the Dark Tower  itself, to where the Enemy returned shortly after fleeing from Mirkwood, and the lands of Gondor had been suffering savage attacks from the East ever since.

Yet though the White Council knew that the Enemy was seeking ever more eagerly for the One Ring, they let themseles be lulled by the words of Curunír, who kept repeating that the One would never again be found in Middle-earth.

The fools. Trusting a shrewd old wizard, just for he was once part of their Council. Little, indeed, knew the Elves about the hearts of Men. The young Third Marshal of Rohan, who never laid hand on one of their old books of lore, saw through Curunír's deeds more easily.

''We were all at fault'', said Elrond to the clearly guilt-ridden Mithrandir, ''and but for your vigilance the Darkness, maybe, would already be upon us.''

_And without the Men of Gondor holding it at bay with their lives and bravery and blood_, Boromir added in silent anger. _At least Mithrandir, who had visited Minas Tirith many times during the past, should have admitted that much_.

But Mithrandir only went on with his tale, telling them how he tried to find Gollum, for he desired to know how the Ring came to such a pitiful creature, and how long he had possessed it; yet the shrewd little thing escaped him and was not found. After what he let the matter rest, watching and waiting only.

_As you and your precious Elves have done all the times while Gondor fought and bled_, Boromir commented in his heart.

''That was seventeen years ago'', Mithrandir continued. ''Soon I became aware that spies of many sorts, even beasts and birds, were gathered round the Shire, and my fear grew. I called for the help of the Dúnedain, and their watch was doubled: and I opened my heart to Aragorn, the Heir of Isildur.''

All eyes turned to the Ranger with unveiled curiosity. Aragorn shifted on his seat, clearly uncomfortable with all that attention paid to his person, and said:

''And I counselled that we should hunt for Gollum, too late though it may seem. And since it seemed fit that Isildur's Heir labour to repair Isildur's fault, I went with Gandalf on the long and hopeless search.''

_How noble of you_, Boromir thought grimly, _and just _what_ were you hoping to find? Which proof did you truly desire, battered offspring of fallen Kings: that the Ring would be the One or that it would not: What hope of yours still lies with it?_

His mind got sidetracked again, not caring much for the long story how Mithrandir and the Ranger hunted the creature. Yet his ears perked up again when the wizard quoted Curunír's words.

''The Nine, the Seven, and the Three'', he said, ''had each a proper gem. Not so the One. It was round and unadorned, as if it were one of the lesser rings; but its Maker set marks upon it that the skilled, maybe, could still see and read.''

Mithrandir paused and shook his head slowly.

''What those marks were he had not said. Who now would know? The Maker. And Saruman? But great though his lore may be, it must have a source. What hand save Sauron's ever held this thing, ere it was lost? The hand of Isildur alone.''

Here the wizard paused again, and Boromir rolled his eyes. Could the old trickster not come to the point and tell what he was about to tell, without all those little games? People were already listening to him anyway…

''With that thought, I forsook the chase and passed swiftly to Gondor'', Mithrandir finally continued. ''In former days the members of my order had been well received there, but Saruman most of all. Often he had been for long the guest of the Lords fo the City. Less welcome did the Lord Denethor show me then than of old, and grudgingly he permitted me to search among his hoarded scrolls and books. 

'If indeed, you look only, as you say, for records of ancient days, and the beginnings of  the City, read on!', he said. 'For to me what was is less dark than what is to come, and that is my care. But unless you have more skill than even Curunír, who has studied here long, you will find naught that is not well known to me, who am master of the lore of this city.' ''

Boromir had to force himself not to laugh. How very like his father, the strong-willed, ill-tempered, with the worries over his city heavily loaded Lord of Minas Tirith this sounded!. A small wonder itself, indeed, it had been, that he allowed Mithrandir to mess up his secret archives at all. Usually he would let no-one even near those rooms, not even his own sons, no matter how much Faramir tried.

''So said Denethor'', the wizard continued. ''And yet there lie in his hoards many records that few now can read; even of the lore-masters, for their scripts and tongues have become dark to later Men.''

Now he turned directly to Boromir, for the first time since the Council had set on anew.

''And Boromir, there lies in Minas Tirith, still, unread, I guess, by any save Saruman and myself since the Kings failed, a scroll that Isildur made himself. For Isildur did not march away straight from the war in Mordor, as some have told the tale.''

''Some in the North, maybe'', Boromir replied, thoroughly fed up now with the wizard's lecturing tone. ''All know in Gondor that he went first to Minas Anor and dwelt a while with his nephew, Melendil, instructing him, before he committed to him the rule of the South Kingdom. In that time he planted there the last sapling of the White Tree, in memory of his brother.''

How much more fleeting your memory is, brother mine! Only a touch of light breeze on my brow, a fleeting taste of strong wine, sweet honey and bitter tears on my lips… once and forever, never to be tasted again. A parting gift, so cool and vanishing as a handful of snow in hot palms – it fades away swiftly, yet long does it burn afterwards. And burn I do with never-ending fire, whomever I might try to quench my thirtst with…

He lost his track on Mithrandir's tale, not caring how the wizard found the scroll of Isildur that described the secret marks on the One Ring – and how they could be made visible again. Only when he heard the name of his father mentioned once more turned his focus outwards again.

''At once I took my leave of Denethor'', Mithrandir was saying, ''but even as I went northwards, messages came to me out of Lórien that Aragorn had passed that way, and that he had found the creature called Gollum. Therefore I went first to meet him and hear his tale. Into what deadly perils he had gone alone I dear not guess.''

''There is little need to tell of them'', said Aragorn, and Boromir could only shake his head in disgust over this false modesty. ''If a man must needs walk in sight of the Black Gate, or tread the deadly flowers of Morgul Vale, then perils he shall have.''

_And just whom are _you_ about to lecture of _that_?_ Boromir clenched his teeth in barely repressed fury. _Who of all this Council is the one who faces the Black Gate every single day? Who can see the fire of Mount Down while merely standing on his watchpost? Who had to fight the Orc-hoasts of Minas Morgul and endure the Nameless Fear under that broken bridge in Osgiliath, buried under the dead bodies of good men whom he had grown up with?_

He stopped listening to the tale, told with far too many words by Strider – by _Aragorn_, he remainded himself, say _Aragorn_, at least you do not have to say _majesty_ yet –, how Gollum was finally found and dragged to the Elves in Mirkwood who had agreed to keep him, until Mithrandir came and endured a long speech with him, learning, that Gollum's ring, indeed, came out of the Great River, nigh to the Gladden Fields where Isildur was slain. And that Gollum had possessed it long, many lives of his small kind, for the power of the Ring had lengthened his years far beyond their span.

A power that only Great Rings wield.

''And if that is not proof enough, Galdor'', the wizard turned back to the Elf, ''there is the other test that I spoke of. Upon this very ring, the letters that Isildur reported may still be read, if one has the strength of will to set it in the fire for awhile. That I have done and this I have read:

                        _Ash nazg durbatulúk, ash nazg gimbatul,_

_                        ash nazg thrakatulúk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul_.

The change in the wizard's voice was astounding. Suddenly it became menacing, powerful, harsh as stone. A shadow seemed to pass over the high sun, and the porch for a moment grew dark. All trembled, and the Elves stopped their ears – all but Legolas, who only paled a little and glared at Mithrandir defiantly, as someone who is used to face great perils.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Okay, that was pretty short again, but I _had_ to make a break somewhere, and this was as good a place as any other.

Now we all know, of course, how Elrond had reacted to Gandalf's use of the Black Speech in his own halls. But was he the only one upset about it? Go to Chapter Six and find out!


	6. Chapter 6: ...And in the Darkness Bind T...

**A Heart for Falsehood Framed**

**by Soledad**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Rating: PG – 13, just to be on the safe side.

Chapter Five: … and in the Darkness Bind Them 

The words, though the evil tongue was not known to him, jabbed through Boromir's heart like daggers of white-hot iron; yet they were as cold as ice. He doubled over in incruciable pain, his breath caught in his aching chest, the unbearable weight of darkness slamming down onto his heart. It was as if the long, wordless wails of the Nameless Fear suddenly had taken on shape. As if a curse, floating above him for a long time, finally had been spoken. As if he had been marked by the shadow, forever.

Through pain-veiled eyes he could see the Lord of Imladris jerk to high alert in his seat. For the first time, he truly could believe that once Elrond had been a great warrior who faced the Enemy itself on the slopes of Mount Doom and stayed back when all fled, nearly alone, to protect the slain body of his fallen King.

That fair, ageless face was now pale with barely restrained wrath, the storm-grey eyes gleamed with cold fire, and even in his pain-hazed state Boromir was glad that Elrond's fury was not aimed at him.

_Not yet, at least_, that merciless voice in his heart commented. _Wait 'til he learns how you have treated his firstborn…_

''Never before has any voice dared to utter words of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey'', said Elrond in a dangerously low, silky voice, as the shadow passed and the members of the Council breathed once more.

''And let us hope that none will ever speak it here again'', answered Mithrandir in his usual, unshakable manner. ''Nonetheless, I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond. For if that tongue is not soon to be heard in every corner of the West, then this thing is, indeed, what the Wise declared: the treasure of the Enemy, fraught with all his malice; and in it lies a great part of his strength of old.''

Boromir looked at the fine, Elvish face of the young hobbit, Frodo, and once more, he felt great pity for the little creature, burdened with such an evil legacy. Small wonder he tried to pass it over to Strider – _Aragorn_, get used to it! –, who rather skillfully avoided to take it upon himself. What King shall such a Man become? One who would not take the burden from the weak and weary? What could the White City hope from such a ruler?

_Were it up to me, I would lessen your burden, little one_, Boromir thought, watching that pain-ridden, small face. He never saw Elven children – no-one in Middle-earth has seen any for at least three thousand years –, but he guessed this would be what they would look like. _'Tis not right that you have to carry it. You ought to be merry and free of all concerns about evil. Tis Men who are made for great burdens, not innocent little Halflings. How I wish that I could help you!_

And that crackened wizard was still not done with his tale!

''Know also, my friends, that I learned more yet from Gollum'', he said. ''He was loth to speak and his tale was unclear, but it is beyond doubt that he went to Mordor, and there all he knows was forced from him. Thus the Enemy knows that the One is found; that it was long in the Shire; and since his servants pursued it almost to our door, he soon will know, already he may know, even as I speak, that we have it here.''

All sat silent for a while, until at length Boromir spoke, unable to hold back any more, for his patience was running out, and the only thing he wanted was to be done with all this wailing and pondering over things he could do naught about. Now that all parts of the Riddle of Doom were finally revealed (and their meaning was aught but pleasant for him _or_ for Minas Tirith), he only wished to return home and defend his city with every means he could laid hand upon.

''He is a small thing, you say, this Gollum?'' he asked. ''Small, but great in mischief, it seems. What became of him? To what doom did you put him?''

''He is in prison but no worse'', said Aragorn. ''He had suffered much. There is no doubt that he was tormented, and the fear of Sauron lies black on his heart.''

Boromir winced involuntarily. Why in Middle-earth would these Northern people need to call the Enemy by his name every time they mentioned him? Were they not taught that names, even the lesser ones that were only taken for a certain time to wear, carried great powers and might invoke great evil if spoken lightly? Was even the so-called Heir of Isildur not taught anything? Not even in Elrond's house who was said to be the greatest lore-master of this age? Or was he so haughty already that he dared to challenge the Dark Lord in his folly? Then the fate of Minas Tirith was sealed, for sure.

''Still I for one am glad that Gollum is safely kept by the watchful Elves of Mirkwood'', the Ranger added. ''His malice is great and gives him a strength hardly to be believed in one so lean and withered. He could work much mischief still, if he were free. And I do not doubt that he was allowed to leave Mordor on some evil errand.''

_Must they really speak this much, all of them?_ Boromir thought, somewhat irritated, for the custom of his King-to-be to make many more words than necessary, made him edgy. _Valar, should he ever come to Minas Tirith, they would be at each other's throaths with Father all the time_.

For the Lord Denethor was known to have his ways with words as well (just as his younger son, unlike his firstborn), wielding them with merciless strength like sharp weapons, and had little endurance for those who wasted his time, even if they were his own sons. And Boromir had no doubt that his father would not be frightened by Aragorn's birth or claim once his cold rage awakened.

_Gondor shall be divided and fall_, he realized with numbing fear, _if no-one comes between the two of them. 'Tis something I cannot let happen – yet how shall I keep them from tearing at each other? And whom I shall side with? The Lord Denethor is not my father only, he is the Steward of Gondor and has served his land faithfully all his life. Yet I cannot deny that the claim of Aragorn is just, at least by the laws of both Kingdoms… What can I do to keep them fighting each other and thus bring our land to fall?_

A sharp Elvish cry of great distress jerked him out of his troubled thoughts.

''Alas!'' Legolas cried, and his fair face darkened with concern. ''The tidings that I was sent to bring must now be told. They are not good, but only here have I learned how evil they may seem for this Council. Sméagol, who is now called Gollum, has escaped.''

''Escaped?'' cried Aragorn. ''That is ill news indeed, after all our trouble to lay hand upon him. We shall rue it bitterly. How come the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?''

_Fool_, Boromir thought with despair, _you were brought up by Elves, how can you openly insult one of them, a Wood-Elf and a Prince above all? Or do you think that Legolas shall endure it for the sake of your old friendship? I very much doubt it_.

And Legolas turned very pale, indeed, green eyes gleaming cold like a naked sword in starlight, and every one around became troubled, for he seemed dangerously near to lose control.

Rarely did it happen with Elves that they would give in to their cold wrath, but when it happened, it could have dire consequences. Moreso with Wood-Elves, who always had had more of the Wild in their hearts and possessed a certain amount of wickedness – and a great deal of wounded pride, having been often looked down upon by the Noldor and others who had seen the Blessed Realm.

Boromir felt awfully certain that the Prince of Mirkwood could tear the Ranger apart with his bare hands if challened ower his endurance. He silently promised himself not to make Legolas angry at him. Ever.

At that moment Elrond silently reached out and laid a calming hand upon the shoulder of his lover. Legolas took several deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down – he was a child no more, not even in Elven terms, and it would have been beneath his dignity to lose his calm.

''Twas not through look of watchfulness'', he told in an even voice, though his eyes were still burning in cold fury, ''But mayhap through over-kindliness. And we fear that the prisoner had aid from others, and that more is known of our doings than we could wish.''

He gave a short report about Gollum's time in Mirkwood and how the vile little beast was freed by the Orcs – which cost him the deaths of three of his close friends: trusted archers who had fought in many battles against the fell creatures haunting the Forest during hundreds of years.

''We have failed to recapture Gollum'', he admitted reluctantly. ''We came on his trail among those of many Orcs, and it plunged deep into the Forest, going south. But ere long it escaped our skill, and we dared not continue the hunt; for we were drawing nigh to Dol Guldur, and that is still a very evil place; we do not go that way.''

Boromir could only guess how hard it for the proud Elven Prince might be to admit that they were outnumbered and the horrors of the Necromancer's Tower simply too great to face, even in his obvious vengeful grief for his slain friends. Yet Legolas did not spare his own pride in order to reveal th truth, and that was more than what could be told of most Men.

Mithrandir, on the other hand, did not seem to be very impressed with the honesty of the Elf. He simply shrugged and accepted the failure as it happened.

''Well, well, he is gone. We have no time to seek for him again. He must do what he will. But he may play a part yet that neither he nor Sauron have foreseen.''

And with that customary vague comment he turned back to Galdor again.

''And now I shall answer to your other questions. What about Saruman? What are his counsels to us in this need? This tale I must tell in full, for only Elrond has heard it yet, and that in brief, but it will bear on all that we must resolve. It is the last chapter in the Tale of the Ring, so far as it has gone yet.''

And so he told in great length how he was lured into a death trap by the very head of his own Order, and how he escaped with the help of Radagast the Brown and Gwaihir the Windlord, swiftest of the Great Eagles, and was brought by the Eagle to Edoras, where the Lord of Rohan sits in his halls.

''And I was glad'', he added, ''for in the Riddermark of Rohan the Rohirrim, the Horse-lords dwell, and there are no horses like those that are bred in the great vale between the Misty Mountains and the White. And, knowing of the treachery of Saruman now, I was worried about the Ring-bearer and his burden, and needed to get to Imladris, fast.''

''Are the Men of Rohan still to be trusted, you think?'' Elrond asked.

Boromir raised his head in sudden anger, but ere he could rush to the aid of his faithful allies, Mithrandir answered the Elf-Lord.

''The same question I asked the Eagle, for the treason of Saruman had shaken my faith. He said the Rohirrim paid a tribute of horses, and sent many yearly to Mordor, or so it is told. And in Rohan I found evil already at work: the lies of Saruman; and the King of the land would not listen to my warnings. He bade me to take a horse and be gone; and I chose one to my liking, but little to his. I took the best horse in his land, and I have never seen the like of him.''

''Then he must be a noble beast, indeed'', said Aragorn; ''and it grieves me more than many tidings that might seem worse to learn that Sauron levies such tribute. It was not so when last I was in that land.''

''Nor it is now, I shall swear'', said Boromir, his big fists clenching involuntarily with anger, for it greatly troubled him that the honour of the Rohirrim, that of the Prince Théodred the Brave above all, was being stained here, by the very people who weren't able to see through the lies of that cursed wizard. ''Tis a lie that comes from the Enemy. I know the Men of Rohan, true and valiant; our allies, dwelling still in the lands that we gave them long ago. With no help from others have they fought the Orc-hords of Isengard and are still fighting to keep their land free.''

And he reached for the clasp upon his throath again, as if it were the hand of that brave woman who had pledged herself to him, not of love to him, but of love to her land, and to whom he was due to return after this errand was over, should the Valar allow him. Then they would ride into battle, together.

''The shadow of Mordor lies on distant lands'', answered Aragorn. ''Saruman has fallen under it. Rohan is beset. Who knows what you shall find there, if ever you return?''

''Not this at least'', Boromir countered hotly, ''that they will buy their lives with horses. They love their horses next to their kin. And not without reason, for the horses of the Riddermark come from the fields of the North far from the Shadow, and their race, as that of their masters, is descended from the free days of old.''

That silenced the Ranger for awhile, so that Mithrandir could finally come to an end of his story, telling how he followed the trail of Aragorn's company, without having been able to find them in the wilderness. So he changed paths and came straight to Imladris where he met them again, to his great relief.

''Well, the tale is now told, from first to last'', he finished. ''Here we all are, and here is the Ring. But we have not yet come any nearer to our purpose. What shall we do?''

There was silence. At last Elrond spoke again.

''This is grievous news concerning Saruman'', he said; ''for we trusted him and he is deep in all our counsels. It is perilous to study too deeply the arts of the Enemy, for good or for ill. But such falls and betrayals, alas, have happened before.''

_'Tis all you have to say, Lord of Imladris?_ Boromir asked silently. _Unfortunate for the brave Riders of Rohan to live in the neighborhood of a treacherous wizard? Ought you not to do something about Curunír, who was, after all, part of your precious White Council?_

The Elves were arguing about some strange, ancient creature he had never heard of, and whether it should be asked to keep the Ring in its custody, then and abandoned the idea at the end.

Boromir felt tired. Tired of this Council, tired of this very errand, tired of worrying. Not even the comfort of returning home, soon, was left him. For he would not return alone, and he knew not what he coud do to keep a new Kintwist from ripping Gondor apart, once Isildur's Heir had set foot in Minas Tirith.

''I know little of this Iarwain'', Galdor of the Havens said; ''but Glorfindel, I think, is right. Power to defy our Enemy is not in him, unless such power is in the earth itself. And yet we see that Sauron can torture and destroy the very hills.''

There he looked at Legolas, who suddenly turned unbelievably sad and hung his head. This must have had to do something with that strange song that made Wood-Elves cry, Boromir guessed. Sooner or later he should make the Elf tell him what it is all about. No more secrets – everything should be laid open.

''What power still remains lies with us, here in Imladris, or with Círdan at the Havens, or in Lórien'', Goldor continued. ''But have they the strength, have _we_ here the strength to withstand the Enemy, the coming of Sauron at the last, when all else is overthrown?''

_Strength_, Boromir snorted, _what strength? What have the Elves done ever since the beginnings of this very age? Mayhap the Wood-Elves fought the Orcs, for they had no other choice, but all those noble others have simply run to the Havens, every time when the sky darkened with peril. Strength, indeed_…

''I have not the strength'', Elrond admitted ruefully; ''nor have they.''

''Then'', said Glorfindel, ''if the Ring cannot be kept from him for ever by strength, two things only remain for us to attempt: to send it over the Sea or to destroy it.

Boromir could not believe his ears. Were they all out of their minds? The greatest power of their Enemy had fallen in their very hands – and they would not use it against him?

''But Gandalf has revealed to us that we cannot destroy it by any craft that we here possess'', said Elrond. ''And they who dwell beyond the Sea, would not receive it: for good or ill it belongs to Middle-earth; it is for us who still dwell her to deal with it.''

_Understood he has it, at last_, Boromir sighed, relieved. _Now we can decide how to use the Ring against its Maker. Not without reason is Elrond counted among the Wise, it seems_.

Yet the other Elves seemed distracted. Glorfindel shook his head in apparent distress.

''Then let us cast it into the deeps and so make the lies of Saruman come true'', he said. ''For it is clear now that even at the Council his feet were already on a crooked path. He knew that the Ring was not lost for ever, but wished us to think so; for he began to lust for it for himself. Yet oft in lies truth is hidden: in the Sea it would be safe.''

In the Sea. They wanted to throw the greates weapon ever forged, mayhap their only hope against the Enemy, into the Sea. What a new treachery it might have been? For Elves were known to travel the Sea all time – who could be certain they would not take the Ring from its hiding place to use it, after all?

''Not safe for ever'', said Mithrandir. ''There are many things in the deep waters; and seas and lands may change. And it is not our part here to take thought only for a season, or for a few lives of Men, or for a passing age of the world. We should seek a final end of this menace, even if we do not hope to make one.''

_A final end, indeed_, Boromir groaned inwardly, a final end to all our hopes. _Why cannot they see how right Isildur has been to keep the Ring as a weregild for his father and his brother? What other means can we have against an Enemy thus powerful but his own weapon?_

''That hope we shall not find on the roads to the Sea'', Galdor said. ''My heart tells me that Sauron shall expect us to take the western way, when he learns what has befallen; so flight to the Sea is now fraught with greatest peril.''

''He soon shall learn of it'', Glorfindel added. ''The Nine have been unhorsed, indeed, but that is only a respite ere they find new steeds and swifter.'' He gazed at Boromir, adding with a slight, respectful bow of his golden head: ''Only the waning might of Gondor stands now between him and a march in power along the coasts into the North; and if he comes, asssailing the White Towers and the Havens, thereafter the Elves may have no escape from the lengthening shadows of Middle-earth.''

_Then give it us to wield it_, Boromir silently prayed. _Tis a gift, a gift to the foes of Mordor, why cannot you see it? By the blood of my poeple are your lands kept safe, so do help us with this at least! Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy! Let us use it against him!_

But out loud, he only said this much:

''Long yet will that march be delayed. Gondor wanes, you say. But Gondor stands, and even at the end of its strength is still very strong.''

''And yet its vigilance can no longer keep back the Nine'', said Galdor. ''And other roads he may find that Gondor does not guard.''

_And what have _you_ done to guard those ways?_ Boromir thought. _What have you _ever_ done during this whole Age but to run to your precious Haven?_

''Then'', said Erestor, ''there are but two courses as Glorfindel already has declared: to hide the Ring for ever; or to unmake it. But both are beyond our power. Who will read this riddle for us?''

_Would they never cease this useless babbling?_ Boromir closed his eyes, trying to restrain his temper before bursting. _Are they all blind that they cannot see the only path that may lead out of darkness? What else could we do with the Ring? Why would they not let us wield it when they have become too cowardly to do so themselves?_

''None here can do so'', Elrond finally said. ''At least none can foretell what will come to pass, if we take this road or that. But it seems to me now clear which is the road that we must take.''

All eyes turned to the Lord of Imladris, and the members of the Council became very silent. Boromir, too, stared expectantly at his host – what in Middle-earth was he about to suggest, after he had already stated that they had no way out of this disaster? Would he choose to wield the Ring after all, no matter how much he disagreed with Isildur's choice?

''The westward way seems easiest'', Elrond continued. ''Therefore it must be shunned. It shall be watched. Too often the Elves had fled that way.''

_Too often, indeed. Leaving the younger, weaker people to their fate, good or evil alike. Little did the Elves ever care for others than themselves. Mayhap now the mortal blood in Elrond's veins would prove strong enough to overcome his Elvish haughtiness and make the right choice_.

The Lord of Imlardis sighed, as if he had read Boromir's thoughts. A hard choice it was, indeed. And he was doomed to make it, for he alone – aside of Gandalft mayhap – had all the right strings in his hand. And being the host of this Council, it was as much his right as it was his duty.

''Now at this last we must take a hard road, a road unforeseen'', he announced solemnly. Then, in a clear, low voice, stressing every single word meaningfully, he added: ''There lies our hope, if hope it be. To walk into peril – to Mordor. We must send the Ring to the Fire.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End note:**

I know, I promised to end this tale in this part, but my characters were in such a talkative mood! So, instead of working on one monster chapter for weeks, I broke it up in two again. Since – fortunately – there isn't that much left from Elrond's council to re-write, I will hopefully bring this long tale to a conclusion in two or three more chapters. The matter between Elladan and Boromir has to be settled, after all, and Elrohir, too, has somehing to say about it.

Now, I feel that this chapter came out extremely uneven – there are some parts I like, but with the others I'm not entirely happy – I could sense several unwanted changes of style myself, but was simply unable to work all the kinks out. Maybe I'll have to re-write the whole chapter backwards, after I've finished the series, but right now, I just needed these things to be put up for the sake of continuation.

And yes, I _know_ that Tengwar are technically letters, not runes, but ''runes'' simply sounded better.


	7. Chapter 7: Decisions

A Heart for Falsehood Framed

**by Soledad**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the Lady Aquiel belongs to me.

Rating: PG – 13, for heavy angst stuff and implied m/m interaction.

**Author's notes:**

Before you go on reading, let me make a statement: this is _not_ a smutty slash story. That is right. You read it correctly. This is a Hurt/Comfort story – or a Hurt/No Comfort one, depending on the eye of the beholder.

Yes, there will be some emotional tension between two male characters, and you can easily conclude that they ended up making love. But that is _not_ what this story is about.

This is about guilt, inner struggle, major angst, reconciliation and a cruel fate that cannot be avoided.

This is about Boromir's state of mind, which finally leads him to his fall.

That is what this whole _series_ is about.

I just wanted to make this very clear. For those who are offended by m/m interaction. And for those who hope to find smut here. They would not.

For background trivia check out Part One. The description of Sauron's temple in Númenór was taken from the Unfinished Tales.

Many thanks to all those gracious people who took their time to review. I wouldn't have been able to finish this monster of a story without you, friends!

And now, on we go!

**Chapter Six: Decisions**

''It seems to me now clear which is the road that we must take'', said Elrond gravely. ''The westward way seems easiest. Therefore it must be shunned. It shall be watched. Too often the Elves had fled that way. Now at this last we must take a hard road, a road unforeseen. There lies our hope, if hope it be. To walk into peril – to Mordor. We must send the Ring to the Fire.''

Silence fell again. Boromir frowned, fingering the blackened silver clasp upon his throath as if for aid. For even in the fair, sunlit house of Elrond, he felt a dead darkness upon his heart – the same shadow that darkened it in Osgiliath and settled down, it seemed, for ever, when the wizard foolishly uttered those cursed words of binding power in the Black Speech.

_One Ring to rule them all,_

_One Ring to find them,_

_One Ring to bring them all_

_and in the Darkness bind them._

These dark words of doom, it seemed, had been floating over him ever since Osgiliath. And now that they were spoken, he could see no way to escape his fate. What a pitiful way to fulfill one's destiny. To have been found by the Darkness, even before he would have learnt about the Ring. To be brought here, to the Ring itself. To fall before temptation.

At length he spoke, and his words came hissing through clenched teeth.

''One does not simply walk into Mordor. Its black gates are guarded by more than Orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep, and the Great Eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire, ash and dust. The very air you breathe is poisonous fume. It is folly. Not with ten thousand men could you do this.''

He glanced at Aragorn, and for the first time ever since this very Council had set on, he saw a flicker of understanding in those grey eyes, the ones of his so much alike. And he, too, understand at once that the words of his King-to-be about facing the perils of Mordor were no idle boasting, after all. The Ranger truly had walked the Black Fields.

Yet it was Legolas who answered him, fair Prince of Mirkwood, still irritated from his recent clash with Aragorn.

''Have you heard naught the Lord Elrond has said? The Ring must be destroyed!''

''I heard all of it'', Boromir replied with growing anger, ''yet I understand naught. Curunír is a traitor – this I have known since I crossed the borders of Rohan –, but did he not have a glimpse of wisdom? Why do you speak ever of hiding and destroying? Why should we not think that the Great Ring has come into our hands to serve us in the very hour of need? Wielding it the Free Lords of the Free may surely defeat the Enemy. That is what he must fear, I deem.''

Here, he had said it. Not everything that had been on his mind, but most of it.

All that needed to be said.

All that _could_ have been be said.

''The Men of Gondor are valiant, and they shall never submit'', he added softer, his heart warming with the thought of the many good and brave men that had gone into battle with him, ever since he was old enough to wield a sword, but also saddening with the memory of how few of them were still alive; ''but they may be beaten down. Valour needs first strength, and then a weapon. Let the Ring be your weapon, if it has such power as you say. Take it and go forth to victory!''

For one fleeting moment he almost believed that they would listen to him… the Dark Lord was their enemy as much as he was Gondor's. But after a look at Elrond's distant face his hopes faded into nothingness.

''Alas, no'', said Elrond. ''We cannot use the Ruling Ring. That we know too well. It belongs to Sauron and was made by him alone, and is altogether evil.''

Boromir shrugged.

''What then? Who cares? The one who made it, is he not evil, too? Let us beat the evil with his own weapon. It has most of his old strength, you said. Why not turn that strength against him and make it be his downfall?''

Yet Elrond only shook his head, and when he looked at the driven Man, there was great sadness in his eyes. For he knew well that they could not do as Boromir suggested and felt pity for him who only wanted to protect his land… even with means that surely would destroy it.

''Boromir'', he said, and now his voice was almost gentle'', its strength is too great to wield it at will, save only those who have already a great power of their own.''

''Why cannot one of you take it, then?'' Boromir asked stubbornly. ''Are you not the great war heroes of the Last Alliance, you and Glorfindel? And what of Mithrandir? Is he not a wizard? Does he not know the old lore better than any one among Men? Surely he could tame the power of the Ring when the need arises.''

''For us'', Elrond responded gravely, ''the Ring holds an even deadlier peril. The very desire of it corrupts the heart. Consider Saruman. If any of the Wise should with this Ring overthrow the Lord of Mordor, using his own arts, he would then set himself on Sauron's throne, and yet another Dark Lord would appear.''

_A strange vision awoke in Boromir's mind at this words: Armenelos he saw, the Golden, capitol city of the Númenórean Kings in an age long gone, as it was described in many old scrolls in his father's archives; and a mighty temple, built upon a hill in the midst of the city; and it was in the form of a circle and its walls rose from the ground five hundred feet, and they were crowned with a mighty dome._

_And that dome was roofed all with silver – but its light was darkened and the silver had long become black. For there was an altar of fire in the midst of the temple, and in the topmost of the dome there was a louver, whence there issued a great smoke, so that the land lay under a cloud for seven days._

_For in that temple, with spilling of blood and torment and great wickedness, Men made sacrifice to Morgoth, the First Evil, that he release them from death._

_And the King sat there and watched them with horrible delight on his keen face and with madness in his grey eyes._

_And behind his throne, there stand he who once had been his enemy and now became his master. The Necromancer behind the throne of a fallen King_…

''And that is another reason why the Ring should be destroyed'', added Elrond quietly, as if he had seen the cruel image of Númenor's fall in Boromir's mind; ''as long as it is in the world it will be danger even to the Wise. For nothing is evil in the beginning. Even Sauron was not so. I fear to take the Ring to hide it. I shall _not_ take the Ring to wield it.''

''Nor I'', said Mithrandir.

Boromir looked at them doubtfully. Especially at the wizard, whom he trusted even less than all those Elves. Was Mithrandir not a member of the same order that's very head was drowning the green fields of Rohan in blood at this very moment? Was he not held prisoner in Isengard for a length of time? Who knows what orders he was given before he fled – if he, indeed, _was_ rescued by the Great Eagle, as told, and not simply released by Curunír with a dark and evil errand. Surely, he had spoken the Binding Curse on the Black Speech easily enough. Like someone who is used to that evil tongue.

Yet as a soldier Boromir knew when to accept defeat. He bowed his head towards Elrond.

''So be it'', he said. ''Then in Gondor we must trust to such weapons as we have. And at the least, while the Wise ones guard this Ring, whe shall fight on. Mayhap the Sword-that-was-Broken may still stem the tide'', he added with a bitter irony and a sideway glance at Aragorn, ''if the hand that wields it has inherited not a heirloom only, but the sinews of the Kings of Men.''

''Who could tell?'', said Aragorn. ''But we shall put it to the test one day.''

''May the day not be too long delayed'', said Boromir; once again, he fealt the weariness spread through all his limbs. ''For though I do not ask for aid, we need it. It would comfort us to know that others fought also with all the means that they have.''

''Then be comforted'', Elrond said. ''For there are other powers and realms that you know not, and they are hidden from you. Anduin the Great flows past many shores, ere it comes to Argonath and the Gates of Gondor.''

Boromir rolled his eyes at this very Elvish comment that sounded so pretty yet said naught, as usual – but he spoke no more, letting Glóin, the Dwarf question the Elves about the other Rings. He cared no more. Now that these fools had, indeed, decided to destroy the One Ring – a plan that's success he greatly doubted –, his only wish was to return home. Should the Heir of Isildur accompany him, it might give the people of Gondor new hope, as long as the fight went on. What after that might come, with his father and the Ranger King under the same roof, he dared not even to think about.

''But what then would happen, if the Ruling Ring were destroyed, as you counsel?'', asked Glóin.

''We know not for certain'', answered Elrond sadly. ''Some hope that the Three Rings, which Sauron has never touched, would become free, and their rulers might heal the hurts of the world that he has wrought. But maybe when the One has gone, the Three will fail, and many fair things shall fade and be forgotten. That is _my_ belief.''

''Yet all the Elves are willing to endure this chance'', said Glorfindel, ''if by it the power of Sauron may be broken and the fear of his dominion be taken away for ever.''

_Lightly do you speak of endurance, my Lord Elf_, Boromir thought grimly, _yet what fate do you expect Gondor to endure? For you, the world may become a much darker place – dark enough, indeed, to leave it behind and sail to the Blessed Realm. But we – we shall be dead by then. My beautiful city in ruins, her people slain, the memory of her wise and valiant Kings forgotten. The fields of Rohan stained with the blood of its brave warriors and their horses. You shall be gone and live on for ever. But we… _we_ shall be dead._

''Thus we return once more to the destroying of the Ring'', Erestor said, ''and yet we come no nearer. What strength have we for the finding of the Fire in which it weas made? That is the path of despair. Or folly I would say, if the long wisdom of Elrond did not forbid me.''

For the first time during this Council, Boromir found himself in complete agreement with an Elf. Not so Mithrandir, though, it seemed.

''Despair or folly?'', he said, his deep eyes gleaming. ''It is not despair; for despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not.''

_Speak for yourself, wizard_.

''Well, let folly be our cloak, a veil before the eyes of the Enemy! For he is very wise, and weighs all things to a nicety in the scales of his malice. But the only measure that he knows is desire, desire for power; and so he judges all hearts. Into his heart the thought shall not enter that any shall refuse it, that having the Ring we may seek to destroy it.''

_Why, indeed, should he think such a thing? 'Tis madness._

''If we seek this, we shall put him out of reconing'', Mithrandir finished, with a self-content glare around.

''At least for a while'', Elrond added soberly. ''The road must be trod, but it shall be very hard. And neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it. This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong.''

The next words of Elrond were lost on Boromir, for he saw that weathered little midget stir next to the Elf-Lord.

''Very well, very well, Master Elrond'', he quieked on that scratchy little voice of his like a little Orc fallen into a wolf trap. ''Say no more. It is plain enough what you are pointing at. Bilbo, the silly hobbit started this affair, and Bilbo had better finish it – or himself. When ought I to start?''

Boromir looked in surprise at the wrinkled little creature, asking himself whether he had finally turned mad, but the laughter died on his lips when he saw that all the others regarded the old hobbit with grave respect. Now what was he meaning of this? Only Glóin smiled, but his smile, too, seemed to come from old memories.

Then suddenly Mithrandir laughed and told the little wight that this quest was beyond his strength and that his part in the Tale of the Ring had ended, unless as a recorder. And Bilbo, too, laughed, relieved, that his brave /or foolish/ offer, given under jest but meant seriously, was not accepted.

''I do not suppose I have the strength or luck left to deal with the Ring'', he mused. ''It has grown, and I have not. But tell me: what do you mean by _they_?''

''The messengers who are sent with the Ring'', Mithrandir explained patiently.

''Exactly! And who are they to be? That seems to me what this Council has to decide, and all that it has to decide. Elves may thrive on speech alone, and Dwarves endure great weariness; but I am only an old hobbit and I miss my ninth-hour-meal. Cannot you think of some names now? Or put it off till after dinner?''

Boromir waited with caught breath, for the little midget's question seemed justified for him. Who, indeed, shall be sent to their certain death in the Black Lands? During the Last Alliance, the greatest hosts of Elves and Men failed to fulfill this very same task. What hope could they have now, when all their powers faded away, slowly but inevitably?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

No-one answered the question. The bell, signaling the ninth hour of the day, rang. Still no-one spoke. Boromir glanced at all faces, but they were not turned to him. All the council sat with downcast eyes, as if in deep thought. Only the young hobbit, Frodo returned his glare, deep blue eyes wide with fear, a graet dread on that small, innocent Elvish face as if he was awaiting the pronouncement of some doom that he had long foreseen and vainly hoped might after all never be spoken. An overwhelming longing to rest and remain in peace, too, here where no evil could touch him – for awhile, at least.

How well Boromir himself knew _this_ feeling! Having lived under the shadow so long, only to have the curse spoken over him at last, here, in Imladris, where he would expect to have his fate sealed the least. To fall into darkness ere it had even tempted his heart. For there were other hindrances on his path to bring him to fall, and his steps were faltering already, with or without the binding power of the Ring.

At last the small, trembling voice of the young hobbit spoke.

''I will take the Ring'', Frodo said, and Boromir's heart went out for him, seeing the infinite sadness on that child-like little face, ''though I do not know the way.''

Elrond raised his eyes and looked at the hobbit, and his keen glance was piercing sharp like a dagger.

''If I understand aright all that I have heard'', he said, ''I think that this task is appointed for you, Frodo; and that if you do not find a way, no one will.''

Boromir felt like screaming. Were they all out of their minds? These, who called themselves the Wise, had they no pity for this fragile little creature? How could they seriously consider sending him out into the Black Lands, with the most dangerous weapon ever forged in Middle-earth, only to be slain? What hope could this innocent little fellow have where armies of Elves and Men had failed?

''But it is a heavy burden'', Elrond added, stating the obvious like Elves always loved to do. ''So heavy that none could lay it on another. I do not lay it on you. But if you take it freely, I shall say that your choice is right; and though all the mighty Elf-friends of old, Hador, and Húrin, and Túrin, and Beren himself were assembled together, your seat should be among them.''

_And we all know too well how _they_ all ended_, Boromir, well-versed in the legends of the Elder Days, as it suited for a born ruler, added grimly. For indeed, all the Elf-friends of old had to endure great perils, torture and pain, and most of them died young and painfully – and even in madness and dishonour. One could not say that being an Elf-friend was desirable for mortals, in any way.

''But you would not send him off alone surely, Master?'', another hobbit – as it seemed, Frodo's man-servant – jumped up from the corner where he had been quietly sitting on the floor.

''No indeed!'', said Elrond, turning towards him with a smile. ''You at least shall go with him. It is hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End note:**

Now, that the important things have been decided, there still is the small matter of broken hearts that needs to be solved.

The question is: has Boromir the strength to swallow his pride?

And if he has, how will Elladan react?

To find it out, go to Chapter Eight.


	8. Chapter 8: Mending the Fences

**A Heart for Falsehood Framed**

**by Soledad Cartwright**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the Lady Aquiel belongs to me.

Rating: PG – 13, for heavy angst stuff and implied m/m interaction.

**Author's notes:**

Now, as we said, there are still some unsolved problems between Boromir and his Elven lover – who just happens to have a brother, greatly worried about him. And though Elrohir might seem to be the softer, more Elvish one of Elrond's twin sons, appearances can be deceiving someties.

Chapter Seven: Mending the Fences 

With that, the long and fruitless Council came to an end, with naught being decided beyond choosing two unfortunate hobbits for an impossible task. Elrond, for his part, offered to make preparations for them. Some of his scouts had been sent out already, and even more were to go in the next morrow. Elrond was sending Elves to get in touch with the Rangers of the North, and maybe with the people of Legolas' father , King Thranduil, in Mirkwood.

The sons of Elrond, too, left the dale in the same morrow, with many other scouts to scour the lands all round for many long leagues before any move should have been made. Strider – _Aragorn_ – went with them, too, and my estranged lover left without saying farewell to me. Not that I would have been surprised by _that_. I deserved it – and more, for I had treated him badly and unjustly.

But Elrohir came to see me the eve before, and for once there was a hardness on his fair face that I only had seen on the face of his twin before. For the first time, the blood of his mortal fathers burnt through those aloof Elven manners of his.

''I require a word with you, son of Denethor, ere we leave'', he said in that cold voice I have come to know as a sign of silent fury by Elves. And indeed, he looked as if he  wanted to tear me to pieces with his bare hands.

''What do you want, Elrohir?'', I asked wearily, though I did have a good guess, to tell the truth. ''To tell me what a fool I have been to throw away the greatest gift I have ever been given? I already know _that_.''

''I care not for _your_ loss or your regret'', Elrohir replied coldly. ''I only care for my brother who has been hurt badly. What has he done to you that he would deserve being treated so cruelly? What deed of his arose your wrath against him so much that you needed to lash out and break his very heart?''

For a while, I could only remain silent in shame and despair.

''The fault is not his but mine'', I finally answered. ''That Council… it angered me very much that you kept Aragorn's claim hidden from me. Never in my life was I considered untrustworthy – until I came to your father's house. I did not deserve to be kept in the dark.''

''That might be true'', Elrohir nodded, the steely glaze of his eyes softening a little, ''but Estel's true heritage had been concealed all those years. The Chieftains of the Dúnedain of the North always lived in great peril, and their lives were short, for the Dark Lord never ceased to seek out and hunt down Isildur's Heirs. We are accustomed to protect our own. And the Kings of Númenór and all their progeny _are_ our kindred.''

At that, I raised my head again, my own gaze, too, becoming somewhat harder now.

''You would not need to protect him from _me_, my Lord Elf'', I said. ''I was brought up to become the Steward of the House of Anárion, and always have I known where my duties would lie: to defend and watch over the White City of the King until he returns – and step down, should he ever return, even if he would be but the last of a ragged House long bereft of lordship and dignity.''

''That is how you see Estel, then'', Elrohir frowned. ''Yet I say you, should-be-Steward of Gondor, he is a lot more than that. Why else should our father give his blessing to Arwen's desire to wed him? Or do you truly believe that Elrond would abuse his own children's happiness as tools in order to gain power over the kingdoms of Men?''

''I know not what to believe any more'', I sighed in defeat. ''I only can see how lowly all you Elves think of Men – lesser beings you consider us for not having the gift to live forever and see and learn things you already have seen and learnt. Even you, who call yourselves Half-Elven, treat the mortal blood in your veins as a fault.''

Elrohir remained silent for a moment; then he closed his eyes in pain and when he spoke again, his voice was soft and full of regret.

''Had you spoken of any of us, even myself, you might have been, to my shame, right. Yet Elladan is closer to your kin than he is to the Firstborn; he always has been. He chose to share his heart with you for his roots in this earth are deep – and being with you has brought him great joy. Yet you wronged him badly, and because of that we might lose him. For he still is Elvish enough to fade away from grief.''

I felt a pang in my heart at those words. The thought that a strong, brave Elf warrior like Elladan might die of broken heart was unsettling – moreso the bitter truth that I would be the cause of such a grievance myself.

_Have I not caused enough pain yet to all those who are near me?_, I thought in dismay. _Not only did I greatly upset my father, destroying all his hopes for our House, and almost destroyed my brother with the forbidden lust of my own heart; shall I now destroy the only one who gifted his undeserved love upon me as well? What has Elladan done, indeed, that I treated him so unjustly?_

''I know not how to make him well again'', I admitted sadly.

''Nor do I'', Elrohir responded, ''yet I do know that you are the only one who might succeed.''

''I very much doubt it. My hands are too rough for healing.''

''Yet you should try'', the Elf said, ''for I would not lose the one closest to my heart over your harshness. Whe shall be gone for quite a long time… long enough for you to make up your mind.''

With that he turned and left me alone. And alone I was, indeed, for the coming days, for the Elves avoided me, and Mithrandir kept company with the hobbits (not that I would desire to spend my time with _him_), and my King-to-be, thankfully, was not around, either. 

Only the Lady Aquiel sought out my company every time and again, which surprised me greatly, for I thought she would share Elrohir's opinion about me – which, to a certain extent, she did. But she visited me a few times nevertheless, and we would walk among the trees of the valley, and she would tell me about the long life of my lover, of his deeds in earlier times and about his struggle to find his own way through the tearing forces of his dual nature.

And she would tell me about Aragorn, too, whom she kept calling Estel: about his childhood among Elves, about his desire to return to his own people, about his struggles and battles and travels… and about his love to the Lady Arwen which nearly became his downfall and become it still might.

She knew very much, and much did she give me to think about. Which was a good thing at the time, or else I might have turned mad, all by myself for days, with only the nightmares to keep me company, unable to leave the dale ere the scouts returned.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

So the days slipped away, as each morning dawned bright and fair, greeted by the long, soft, sorrowful, and at times even wordless songs of the Wood-Elves, and each evening followed cool and clear, ere night fell and the nightmares, filled with fire and darkness, returned to torment Boromir's heart.

But autumn was waning fast; slowly the golden light faded to pale silver, and the lingering leaves fell from the naked trees, turning the wailing songs of the Wood-Elves even more sad, so sad it could have broken a Man's heart, would it not have been in shards already. A wind began to blow chill from the Misty Mountains to the east, and Boromir felt the coming of a hard winter in his bones. The Hunter's Moon waxed round in the night sky, and put to flight all the lesser stars.

But low in the South one star shone red. Every night, as the Moon waned again, it shone brighter and brighter. Boromir could see it from the terrace of the guest house, freezing in the cold night but glad to have escaped from his dreams for awhile: deep in the heavens, burning like a watchful eye that glared above the trees on the brink of the valley.

The great, lidless Eye of Mordor, framed with fire. He knew it well. He had seen it every day of his life, standing on the wall of his city. Minas Tirith, the white Queen of the South – she shall be consumed by that fire one day. Of that, he was awfully certain… unless some wonder happened, something not even the Wise could foresee. And the weight of darkness grew on his heart, nearly unbearable.

Almost two months had he already spent in Elrond's house – or, to be nearer to the truth, in the guest house of the Lord of Imladris, with only Legolas' escort as his unseen company, for the Wood-Elves would vanish for days, to be with the immortal trees of the dale, and when they returned, they would not seek out his company. Not even Legolas came to him any more – Boromir did not know whether the Prince of Mirkwood was in Imladris at all or left with the scouts as well.

Very lonely he was, more so than ever in his life, and were it not for the unfrequent visits of the Lady Aquiel, he probably would not have been able to endure it. Yet Lalaith's clear voice and musical laughter eased a little the burden of his heart, and so he went on, waiting for news, waiting for the longed-for day of his return to Gondor.

 November had gone by with the last shreds of autumn, and December was passing, when the scouts started to return, and Boromir was called to Elrond's house every time to hear their tidings. For that, he was grateful, even though having Elrond's piecing glare on himself made those meetings hard to bear.

Same of the scouts had gone north beyond the springs of the Hoarwell into the Ettenmoors; and others had gone west, and with the help of Aragorn and the Rangers of the North had searched the lands far down the Greyflood, as far as Tharbad, where the old North Road crossed the river by a ruined town. This part caught Boromir's interest more than others, for it had been at Tharbad where he was waylaid by Orcs and lost his cheerished horse on his way here, and was forced to continue his tiresome journey afoot.

Many scouts had gone east and south; and some of these had crossed the Mountains and entered Mirkwood, led by Legolas himself, who, indeed, offered to escort them, for he wanted to speak his to father ere the Ring was sent out; while others had climbed the pass at the source of the Gladden River, and had come down into Wilderland and over the Gladden Fields, and so at length had reached the old home of Radagast the Brown at Rhosgobel.

Radagast was not there – and this seemed to give Mithrandir great distress, the reason for which Boromir failed to understand; after all, Radagas was a wizard, too, and could take care of himself –, and they had returned over the high pass that was called the Dimrill Stair.

In no region had the messengers discovered any signs or tidings of the Black Riders or other servants of the Enemy. Even from the Eagles of the Misty Mountains they had learned no fresh news. Nothing had been seen or heard of Gollum, either; but the wild wolves were still gathering, and were hunting again far up the Great River.

Of the Black Riders no other trace was to be seen than the dead bodies of their drown horses: three in the flooded Ford an five more on the rocks of the rapids below it. Yet the presence of their Riders was no-where to be felt. It seemed that they had vanished from the North.

''Eight out of the Nine are accounted for at least'', said Mithrandir. ''It is rash to be too sure, yet I think that we may hope now that the Ringwraiths were scattered, and have been obliged to return as best they could to their Master in Mordor, empty and shapeless.''

_To return to the neighborhood of Gondor. Empty and shapeless, you say, Mithrandir? The darkness that dwell in their empty shadow needs no shape to freeze the hearts of Men to ice and fill their minds with madness. Far worse they are without a shape, indeed, for so the restrains of a form shall not keep their darkness at one place but sends it out all over our lands_…

''If that is so, it shall be some time before they can begin the hunt again'', the wizard added, unaware of Boromir's dark thoughts. ''Of course, the Enemy has other servants, but they will have to journey all the ways to the borders of Rivendell ere they can pick up our trail. And if we are careful that shall be hard to find. But we must delay no longer.''

And so, at least, Boromir learnt that the wizard, too, was meant to go with the Ring-bearer to Mordor.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Yet they still had to wait for the sons of Elrond to return as the last of the scouts. Elladan and Elrohir had made a great journey, passing down the Silverlode into a strange country, but of their errand they would not speak to any save Elrond.

After having spoken at length to their father, Elrohir went straight to the Lady Aquiel, whom he had been missing greatly all along, but Elladan returned to his chambers, bone-weary and shaking with cold, wishing only to have a long, hot bath and then go to bed.

He felt the presence of his lover even before entering his bedchamber. And there, indeed, stood the son of Denethor, just outside the arched entrance, alone in the slowly pouring rain, anguish and stubborn determination fighting on his face.

Elladan sighed. The last thing he wanted right now was another hurtful fight with this brick-headed Man. On the other hand, he already knew Boromir well enough to know that the Gondorian prince – for that was how he saw Denethor's son, who might have lacked the title but not the pride and the royalty – would stay in the rain for days if he had to.

''What do you want, Boromir?'', he asked tiredly.

''May I…'', Boromir hesitated, ''may I have a word with you?''

Elladan waved in defeat. He could just as well listen to the Man and be done with the whole unfortunate affair. 

_If I can. If I shall ever get over him_.

''Come in, then. It would do no good to stay outside in the rain and become sick ere you can leave for home.''

Boromir took a few tentative steps inside. Elladan brought out a bottle of _miruvor_ and poured them both a cup – he knew they both would need their strength ere this conversation was over.

Boromir felt his hand trembling when he took the cup from his lover. No matter how different their feelings for each other had become, he did not want to part in anger. And having been the one who had hurt the other badly, he knew it was up to him to try to make things better.

Elladan reached back, loosened the cord that held his hair together and shook it free with a sigh.

''You wanted to speak'', he said. ''Speak then.''

_And be done with it. All I want is to sleep and to forget_.

''I… I want to ask your forgiveness'', Boromir murmured, not daring to look straight at the Elf's tired face. ''I had no right to speak to you like… like I did.''

''That is very true'', Elladan replied flatly. ''Yet you did it nevertheless.''

''I… did not mean to hurt you'', Boromir continued hesitantly, seeking for the right words and not finding any.

''Does it matter any more?'' Elladan asked. ''Much as I wish that things coul be between us as they were, we both know that they would not. Never again.''

''This I know'', Boromir nodded, sorrowful. ''And I do know, too, that 'tis my fault alone… and I honestly, deeply regret hurting you.''

''I am nearly three thousand years old'', Elladan said, his eyes flashing briefly. ''I have been hurt before. I got over it. Just as I shall get over this one. Over you. I shall live.''

''You sure?'' Boromir asked quietly.

Elladan glared at him, with a very un-Elvish, very stubborn face, his lips tightening into a thin line once again. ''Very sure.''

''Your brother is not'', Boromir said.

Elladan frowned, steel-grey eyes darkening. ''My brother should not..''

''Your brother is worried about you'', Boromir interrupted. ''It is his right, for he is your brother and he loves you.'' _More than _I shall_ ever be able, to my shame_, he added in his heart ruefully. ''Yet 'tis of no importance. I would have come to you anyway.''

Elladan raised a doubtful eyebrow. ''You would?''

Boromir nodded with deliberate slowness. ''I would.''

''What for?'' Elladan asked. ''You spoke your mind very clearly that last time. I know now what you think of me: that I only shared your bed to serve my father's purposes. What else could be said after that?''

''I… I never believed that…''

''You did. In that break during the Council, you did.''

''Nay… not truly.''

''Then why said you such horrible things to me?''

''I was angry'', Boromir admitted. ''I truly believed that your father would secretly plot against mine – that he would take us our land… our beautiful city… our inheritance… our very purpose – just to make his daughter a Queen.''

''You still believe thusly?'' Elladan asked. Boromir made a helpless gesture.

''What I do or do not believe is of little importance. Such is what I might or might not think of Aragorn. He _is_ Isildur's Heir – for that I have seen enough proof, therefore I have no other choice but to accept his claim. I cannot fight him, not now, nor later. Gondor needs to stay strong in the upcoming dire times. That is our only chance to survive, if there ever would be one.''

''And yet 'tis not a happy choice for you'', Elladan said.

It was not a question. Boromir shook his head.

''Nay, 'tis not. He shall take me the only thing still worth living for: my shining city, my duties, my purpose. The only thing I had the Lady Éowyn to offer; so this would be the end of all _her_ hopes as well. Yet I cannot fight him, for his claim is justified according the laws of Arnor and Gondor, and should I turn against him, the fall of my people would be certain.'' He sighed, weariness creeping over his very being again. ''I only wish you could at least forgive me. I wish not part from you in anger.''

''I forgave you the very day Elrohir and I left'', Elladan said tiredly. ''I can even understand your mistrust against some of my father's dealings. But it hurt me very much that you would not trust _me_. That you believed I would deceive you.''

''And that I regret more than anything in my life'', Boromir replied, ''for truly, never have I felt so safe as in your arms. And I cannot see how I could have doubted you, even for a fleeting moment.''

He paused, But Elladan did not answer, only looked at him somewhat confused, yet his eyes seemed less tired now. Boromir sighed.

''I miss you'', he added with a sad little smile. ''I miss the warm safety of your embrace; the touch of your soul that healed my heart, as far as it could be healed; your voice, singing to me in the darkness, keeping the nightmares away. With you, I almost felt like before the shadow had fallen upon me.''

''We are healers'', Elladan said simply, ''that is what we do. But you would be gone shortly anyway; and I would stay here. Our time has been measured short, form the beginning.''

''I know that'', Boromir replied. ''I have known that all the time. The more I regret my folly that took us the rest of even that short time.'' He paused again, looking for the right words. ''I know I have no right to ask you aught, but… would you grant me one last wish?''

''I know not'', Elladan eyed him warily. ''What wish would that be?''

''Would you sing to me once again, so that I can sleep in peace one more time?'' Boromir whispered. He would beg on his knees if he had to, and pride be damned. ''All my dreams are filled with fire and darkness… I cannot go on like that any more.''

Elladan pondered over his request for awhile; then he nodded slowly.

''I need to rest first'', he said, ''for I am weary beyond measure. Yet eve is still far away; right after sunset I shall go to you.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

''Are you certain that you want to do this?'' Elrohir asked doubtfully. He came from the rain-soaked garden, just as Boromir had done.

''Were you listening?'' Elladan shot back. ''Even though I have shared my pain with you, do I not deserve some privacy?''

''I saw him waiting outside'', Elrohir shrugged, ''and he seemed to be in a foul mood. I was getting worried… And you truly wish to go to him?''

Elladan noded. ''I am still concerned about him. Those nightmares… they come from the darkness that fell over him during the battle of Osgiliath. Very evil things, they are, and getting worse. But when ever I sing to him in his sleep, they cannot reach him.''

''And you intend to do no more than that?'' Elrohir clearly did not think so.

Elladan gave him a rueful smile. ''You know me too well, brother. But the truth is… I missed him, too. Short is the time fate granted us, and I wish not to waste it.''

''Do you want to get hurt again, this much?'' Elrohir asked, troubled about the spell this mortal had upon his brother. Elladan sighed.

''I wish to touch passion again. In mere days, he shall be gone, never to return. Should the Valar allow him to survive, which I very much doubt, he would go home, wed the woman he is promised to and build up the House of the Stewards. For thus is demanded of him, and he is a Man who takes his duties very seriously.''

''And what about you?'' Elrohir asked. Elladan was silent for a moment; then he shrugged.

''I shall have my memories.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

And so my lover came to me after sunset and took me in his arms and sang to me in the soft darknes of my bedchamber. And I buried my face in the gentle crook of his neck and wept with guilt and sorrow.

I wept for my beautiful city that would fall into the hand of a stranger.

I wept for my father who shall be taken the only purpose of his long, hard life – a purpose he sacrificed anything for, including his family.

I wept for my brother who shall be torn apart between his loyalty to our father and the loyalty to the new King.

I wept for the Lady Éowyn who shall not become the shining white Queen of Gondor. For naught of what I have promised her shall come true, I fear. I might not have become a King by title, but without Isildur's Heir crawling out of the Northern wilderness, I would have ruled Gondor one day, with the White Lady of Rohan on my side.

Now, even if she choses to take me on my given word, she would only become the wife of a servant.

But she was born to rule, not to serve.

And so was I.

So I wept for myself, too, over the twisted ways of fate that took me my shining city, the only thing that was left me.

And over the twisted ways of my own heart.

For I could not bleed out of it the forbidden love towards my own brother, though mayhap Father would be content with me now. Have I not pledged myself to the Lady Éowyn whom he wanted me to wed? And even if I would never cease to love Faramir, did I not dutifully turn my lust towards another male?

_What would Father say_, I wondered, _if he could see me in this very moment? He despises weakness above anything else._

_Yet I am so broken, I cannot hold back any more_.

And I wept for my beautiful Elven lover who gave me not only the comfort of flesh but his heart and soul as well, and whom I had only given sorrow. Yet here he was, rocking me in his arms like he would soothe a frightened child, and singing to me in the dark.

And though I was still deeply ashamed about how I had treated him only a few weeks ago, I could not help but ask:

''Will you lie with me tonight?''

His voice trailed off, and I feared that I have ruined between us everything again.

But then I heard his quiet laughter.

''Tonight and any other that remains us.''

And so he stayed with me and loved me, like he did in our first night together, touching the fire of passion in each other's soul, and once again, I felt ashamed for accepting his love which I did not deserve and giving him naught in exchange. I tried to voice my troubled feelings, yet he only laughed softly in the darkness as if I had been but a child and quieted me in the most pleasant way: with his lips on mine. So I spoke no more, accepting grateful his forgiveness which I deserved even less than I deserved his love, thanking the Valar for those unexpected gifts that enlightened my path under the shadow.

And then we slept.

Side by side in my bed, we slept.

And I felt safe in his arms once again, more safe than I had ever felt in my short, harsh life, save mayhap in the womb of my mother.

Here endeth this story

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End note:**

I did it! Unbelievable, but finally I did it! This was the final part of ''A Heart for Falsehood Framed'', and I apologize if it became too long or boring someplaces. I hope putting the story back together had helped with better understanding, though. 

These things had to be said before I sent my heroes out to fight the Caradhras.

Which is a different tale entirely – one of which I do not have any clear concept of yet, so it might take time till it forms itself. It will be titled ''Of Snow and Stone and Wolves'', I think, unless I come up with a better title.

Thanks for staying with me!

Soledad


End file.
